


roll for seduction

by unstable_grad



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dungeons & Dragons, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bedsharing, Blood and Gore, But different, Canon-Typical Racism, Canon-Typical Violence, Ciri is a half-elf ranger, Cuddles, D&D Lore, Dry Humping, Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, Eskel is DM, F/F, Fluff, GREG IS HERE, Geralt is a bi disaster in real life and in D&D, Geralt is a good dad, Geralt is a half-orc fighter, Geralt is pissed off about it, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon's Parent, Graphic Description, Hand Jobs, INCLUDING GERALT, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jaskier is an elf bard, Jaskier is enby, Jaskier tries to seduce everyone, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Mess, Lambert is a dragonborn rogue, M/M, Minor Character Death, Netflix Triss, Recreational Drug Use, Regicide, Secret Relationship, Sexism, Speciesism, The Witcher Lore, Triss is a human cleric, Triss/Geralt in D&D campaign, When your ranger character just wants to kill the boss but the bard rolled a nat 20 for seduction, Witcher videogame canon, Yen/Geralt in D&D campaign, Yennefer is a tiefling sorceress, and they were ROOMMATES, appropiate D&D casting, basically she’s the devil incarnate, basically the campaign is Wild Hunt, because i am also escaping through D&D, breeding mentioned, coen is a puppy literally, college student Ciri, depiction of injury, dislocated shoulder, fic inspired by this tag, flaying, grad student Jaskier, he rolls nat twenties on everything, how did i not tag angst before this, inappropiate use of italics, like fuck, murder of girls, murder of women, no past Yen/Geralt, of course, orcs are basically blood-thirsty greenpeace members, pan Ciri, pandemic fic, please do not try to reduce your shoulder on your own, quarantine fic, racism to humans, reducing shoulder, relocating your shoulder, the wild hunt, they really care about the planet, this is really inspired by that joey batey netflix video, we stan Triss in this house, whoreson junior is an asshole, world-building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:06:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24154027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unstable_grad/pseuds/unstable_grad
Summary: being a seductive bard in a D&D campaign is so much easier than keeping a romantic relationship with your best friend's father secret, writing your dissertation during a pandemic, and somehow surviving quarantine with a family that truly knows no boundaries. jaskier would know.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 96
Kudos: 152





	1. roll for initiative

**Author's Note:**

> lol, saw that Joey Batey Netflix video where he created a D&D monster and then this fic happened, so fuck me I guess?
> 
> also, i'm following D&D 5th edition rules, classes, etc., but i've never DM'd before so i will probably get some things wrong. d&dbeyond (https://www.dndbeyond.com/) is a great resource if you've never played or have questions on something.
> 
> finally, i am writing this fic about our current pandemic moment. i've found that fic has been an incredible way for me to escape some of my daily anxieties about the pandemic, but i totally understand that this is a sensitive subject for many people. this fic may touch on some triggering material in future chapters related to the pandemic and i will do my best to tag and warn everyone about that material. i hope that you and your loved ones are staying safe, staying home (if you can), and doing what you can to support yourself and others (if you can). it is national mental health awareness in the US, so if you are able, check out some of the resources from NAMI (https://www.nami.org/home) for self-care exercises, information on mental health and COVID-19, and other materials. stay safe out there y'all.

They make quite the campaign. 

It was Eskel’s idea initially: he had always been obsessed with everything fantasy and this was a great way to manhandle his brothers into weekly meetings, where after, Eskel could not-so-discreetly call Vesemir and give the update on his other two wayward sons. 

It also made sense that Eskel was the DM: steadfast and charismatic, but with a mischief streak that often (when around Lambert) knew no bounds. He also could put Geralt’s character in extremely compromising situations without so much a peep out of the white-haired middle child. 

Lambert was one hundred percent on board with the entire endeavor. His Dragonborn rogue could often be found looting every single person they came across, starting brawls in every pub they entered, and drinking all of the ale around. But the devilish rogue had a soft spot: he stopped and helped every woman and child they came across, often leading the campaign off into intense week-long sidequests searching for cats in trees or lost jewelry. 

Geralt was a little harder to convince, only taking part because Ciri had found out about her uncle’s obsession with the role-playing game and  _ insisted _ that she be a part of it, much like she did with all other situations that her uncles put forth. They formed a father daughter duo of a half-orc fighter and a half-elf ranger (though no one really wanted to know how  _ that _ sex went). Ciri was all teeth, attacking nearly anyone who so much looked the wrong way at her (despite her normal temperament being quite calm and collected); where Geralt often took the road less traveled by the campaign--also known as the, “we do not need to kill  _ every  _ monster we come across that doesn’t attack us first, put away the  _ cantrips Yenna!”  _

Yennefer and Triss had joined after one of Ciri’s phone calls lamenting the third almost total party kill of the month, deciding that the adventure needed a more  _ feminine _ influence (cue laughter from Eskel and Lambert). Triss adopted a human cleric like a fish to water (afterall, she was a nurse in her daily life), while Yennefer took on the terrifying Tiefling sorceress that was  _ most definitely  _ the Devil incarnate based on the way the campaign was rolling.

Jaskier was the last to join. When Ciri had traipsed off to university that past fall, she had quickly fallen for the teaching assistant in her Native American history course. However, they were most certainly more interested in being her friend rather than being her  _ friend _ , but jumped at the chance to join the campaign. They quickly adopted the role of an elf bard, electing to at least attempt to seduce every boss the adventurers had to fight. It didn’t help that Jaskier always rolled natural twenties (as if dice rolling was their god-given right) and most of the time when Geralt was screaming to kill a boss, Jaskier would roll a joint, take a puff, throw out a natural twenty on persuasion, and say in the most sultry of voices, “Whatever you say  _ daddy _ .” 

So yes. Quite the campaign. 

***

“Could you, just for once, listen to me?” Geralt growled at the bard, who was lounged up against a tree, plucking out some tune on their lute. “Sirens are not these friendly, beautiful creatures that you have made up in some ballad.”

“Ah, ah,” Jaskier tsked, plucking out a new tune. “Valdo Marx, my arch nemesis, is the one that created the ballad. As we have just seen, sirens are not in the slightest the way that he described them.”

Yennefer snorted from somewhere over Geralt’s shoulder as Triss wrapped the wound on her arm with strips of fabric torn off of Lambert’s gambeson. The rogue and Ciri were nowhere to be found; Geralt could briefly remember them suggesting that they track the sirens and find the nest before regrouping for a better battle plan. 

Because clearly, they were woefully unprepared for the pack of  _ six _ sirens that had attacked them. 

Yennefer had quickly been able to dispatch the first two sirens; however, her magic was quickly depleted keeping the rest of the party members from harm, leaving her open to vulnerable attacks. Lambert had gotten in a few jabs before Jaskier had stepped up, slung their lute over their front, and launched into the most bawdy, most enchanting song (not that Geralt would ever say that out loud, but it was one of the ballads that he did prefer), pausing the attack from the sirens.

They turned quizzically toward the bard as they sang the tune; however, the distraction was short-lived when Ciri attempted to sneak up on the rest of the sirens, stepping onto a branch and alerting the she-demons to her presence. The sirens swarmed the vulnerable bard and less-than-stealthy huntress, spurning Geralt into action ( _ finally _ ), racing to the aid of his daughter and the  _ exhausting _ bard.

Geralt’s silver longsword sliced through the wings of the siren attacking Jaskier, causing her to plummet to the ground, where he stabbed her through the scales covering her heart. The siren let out a pitiful shriek before solidifying into the beautiful statuesque state of her death. The other sirens called out in pain at the death of their sister, diving down out of the sky like meteors, streaking towards the white haired fighter, the battling huntress, and the very very vulnerable bard.

However, before they could reach the trio, a blast of air from Triss blew them off the cliffside, gaining a moment of reprieve for the adventurers. 

Which is how they all landed here. Geralt and Jaskier at each other's throats, Triss and Yennefer exchanging soft words and healing spells, and Ciri and Lambert galavanting across the Skelligan landscape. 

“I’m just noting that Valdo could have pointed out the razor sharp teeth and claws of these lovely beasties,” Jaskier said, gesturing to the mutilated bodies of the hybrids. “I will be sure to correct this in the ballad of  _ our  _ adventure.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, pulling out his hunting knife and slicing off the scales and feathers on the wings of the siren. “We don’t need another ballad,  _ bard _ ,” he growls.

“Well, excuse you! My singing almost got us out of this mess and—” Jaskier retorted, shock filling their expression, voice rising with indignation. 

“I would say that it got us further into this mess, as it always does,” Geralt pushed back, ignoring the snort from Yennefer and the eye roll from Triss.

“Why, what are you implying?” Jaskier asked, turning on the older fighter, who could not hide his exasperation at the bard. “Oh… We are so having this conversation! Come on, Geralt. Tell me. Be honest,” Jaskier paused before driving home their point, “How’s my singing?”

“It’s like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling,” Geralt said, idly stowing the ingredients from the sirens into his potion’s pouch.

“You need a nap!” Jaskier shouted, rounding on the fighter—

“Jaskier, if you’re planning on punching Geralt, you’ll need to roll for initiative,” Eskel drawled, running a hand through his hair on the other end of the discord chat. “Although, I’d like to point out that Geralt has a substantial advantage over you in strength, AC, and dexterity, and you will most likely lose—”

“Alright, alright, alright, fuck off Eskel,” Jaskier states, running a hand through their hair. “Can you tell Geralt to stop being such an insufferable asshole then?”

“Do you all  _ have  _ to do this every week?” Yennefer asks, sounding bored. “Can’t y’all just fuck and get it over with?”

Both Jaskier and Geralt sputter on their individual lines with multiple excuses as Lambert and Eskel guffaw loudly into their mics. Ciri rolls her eyes next and picks up her phone, the moment of submersion into the campaign totally lost. 

It’s rolling on hour three of their weekly meeting and the campaign has begun to hit their designated stopping mark. The night starts out well enough every week; everyone high on endorphins from their respectfully shitty work/school weeks, ready to defeat whatever Eskel has thought up for their characters. Two hours of blissful play later, the campaign starts to fall apart at the seams; partially because of Geralt and Jaskier’s horrible attempts at seducing one another (in their own atrocious ways); partially because of Lambert’s inane ability to piss nearly everyone (except for Ciri) off. 

The ending of the night usually starts with a high seduction roll from Jaskier, an obtuse remark or two from Geralt, then a looting from Lambert, which prompts arguments on the morality of looting between Triss and Lambert, which then turns into Yennefer defending her partner from Lambert’s  _ courseness  _ (“God, can you fuck off Lambert!”), and finally ends in a fourth-wall break because Jaskier is  _ attempting  _ to murder Geralt with their lute strings and Geralt is  _ attempting  _ to murder Jaskier with a gaze and a grunt. Ciri usually bounces around this time, with some lame excuse of homework for history (even though Jaskier definitely didn’t assign  _ any _ ) and Eskel, being the absolutely incredible uncle that he is, will read her emotions and end the night. 

“Alright, to summarize,” Eskel clears his throat over the bickering that has started up between Triss and Lambert ( _ again _ ). “Each party member, add 1,280 XP, which should put everyone at 46,750 XP, so hopefully a level up next time if some people—”

“Cough,  _ Geralt _ .”

“Cough,  _ Jaskier _ .”

“Can get their shit together,” Eskel sighs. “Add in the respective coin, with Triss taking none, and Lambert taking double, and we have a potion of invisibility up for grabs?”

“Mine,” Lambert and Yennefer call at the same time. 

“Lambert, I think you have eight or nine of these and Yenna, you can make yourself invisible. It’s going to the cub,” Eskel states, and Ciri punches in the item on her D&D Beyond character sheet.

“And before we finish, Ciri and Lambert, roll dexterity saving throws,” Eskel states gleefully. “And Jaskier, a charisma saving throw for you.”

“Fuuuuuccckk,” Lambert complains. “A nat one plus three so four.”

“A sixteen for me,” Ciri states, gleefulness at Lambert’s misfortune radiating through the mic. 

“And, a nat twenty plus eight for me,” Jaskier states with a laugh. 

“Fucking fuck,” Geralt sighs. 

“Alright Jaskier, after you fight with Geralt, you wander away from the group up the scraggly Skelligan cliff to a small grove of rowan trees at the top. You remember that Triss uses rowan in some potions, so you begin to collect the berries, oblivious to the crunch of leaves under hooves.”

“Ooooooo,” Jaskier ahhs, eyes glinting in the setting sunlight. 

“On the opposite side of the isle, Ciri and Lambert are racing towards the top of the mountainside, still pursuing the siren nest. Ciri, you head up first, making it to the summit with nearly no problems, while Lambert lags behind, the rocky terrain slowing him down. Lambert stumbles and misses the ledge when he jumps up behind you, sending him careening back down the mountainside and into the dark forest below. You turn to call out for him, but he has disappeared. You decided to trek on to find the siren nest before going after your compatriot.”

“Thanks, cub,” Lambert states, sarcastically. 

“As you reach the summit; however, you are greeted with the sight of a familiar figure, in a torn cloak and dark gray crown-like helmet, obscuring their face. They turn to you and you feel their silver eyes pierce your very soul. The wind whips around the two of you, turning the weather on the isle from a pleasant fall evening into the deep, dark recesses of a winter night. You go to scream, but this stranger you know flings out a hand at you and the whole world goes dark and cold.”

“Shit,” Ciri swears. “Who the fuck is it?”

“That will have to wait till next week!” Eskel calls, all too smug at the cliff-hanger he has thrust onto the party. 

“Goddamit, Eskel,” Ciri and Geralt complain at the same time, much to the elder uncle’s satisfaction. 

“You’ll be home next week, right cub?” Lambert asks, drawing the group away from the adventure’s dire fate. 

“Yep, train tickets are booked, and I’ve got my mask and everything else with me.”

“Make sure you wash your hands,” Triss reminded through the phone. 

“Yes, mom,” Ciri stated with a grin. “Plus, Jaskier is coming with, so they’ll keep me safe.”

“Jaskier is what?!” Yennefer and Triss asked at the same time. 

“Oh, Geralt will fucking murder them,” Lambert stated with a snort. 

“Hey!” Jaskier whined. 

“What?” Lambert asked innocently, “It’s the truth.”

Jaskier rolled their eyes at the webcam and settled back into their chair, rolling a joint and avoiding the piercing gaze from Geralt. 

“We’ll be fineeeee,” Ciri stressed, staring down her uncles and father. “No hurt will come to Jaskier. Plus, it’s for their dissertation research because Dad lives on the edge of the Tulalip Tribes reservation, and Jaskier is coordinating with their advisor and tribal leaders for pandemic assistance.”

The other adults nod sagely at Ciri’s explanation and Jaskier relaxes after the intense scrutiny has passed. Ciri is worried about Jaskier and her father being in the same home for an extended period of time, without any places to go; however, Jaskier recently changed their dissertation topic because of the pandemic and had asked if Ciri would let them stay while they conducted field research with their advisor. Ciri couldn’t turn down a friend in need and while Geralt didn’t seem to be Jaskier’s biggest fan, she knew that they had got on well once upon a time (also known as their first and  _ only _ meeting), and was hoping that this time would bridge their D&D character’s obvious gap and bring her two favorite people together. 

“Alright, so meeting up at Geralt’s next week then?” Eskel asks the group. 

“Triss and I will be virtual and social distancing, but sounds good,” Yennefer states. 

“Cool, cool, cool,” Eskel states, “See y’all then!”

Ciri logged out of Roll 20, closed her discord, and sighed, rolling her neck from side to side, trying to ease the tension from the session. 

One week. 

One week and she would find out who this mysterious character was; what the ranger’s fate is; and if her father and her best friend could survive in the same home together. 

One week. 

***

The buzz of their phone draws Jaskier out of their research mode, leaving them to scramble and find the device that has become buried under all of the PDFs, books, and various note paper on their desk. It buzzes again as they scramble, finally closing guitar calloused hands around the sleek iPhone. 

**You up?**

Jaskier grins, fingers flying over the keys with their response.

_ Who r u, a hookup from my freshman year? _

The phone buzzes as the next text comes in. 

**Do I even want to know?**

Jaskier laughs and dials the number. They hear the click on the other end of the line as the caller picks up. 

“Is this a booty call? Cause I live too far for a booty call. Also, I feel too old for a booty call.”

The other end lets out a gravely deep chuckle that makes Jaskier’s blood sing. 

“If you’re too old, then what am I? Ancient history?”

“Very much so. Such ancient, much old.”

“Ha ha. I wanted to see how you were doing and if you were eating.”

“Sweet,” Jaskier says with a small smile as their heart flutters. “I had dinner an hour ago? After we got off the call.”

“Hm,” the other end replies. “I miss you,” he says after a beat. 

“I miss you too,” Jaskier replies easily. 

“I can’t wait till you’re here,” Geralt sighs. 

“You just saw me last weekend,” Jaskier states with a laugh. “Remember, I spent all weekend between your ridiculously high thread count sheets.”

“Oh, I remember,” Geralt chuckles, which shoots little sprigs of pleasure through Jaskier’s spine. 

But the pleasure is short lived. Jaskier is worried. They’ve been doing this, whatever it is for several months, deftly avoiding the boundary avoidant members of Geralt’s family. But moving in together for an indefinite amount of time will be tricky.

They had met two months after Jaskier and Ciri had met. Ciri’s crush on Jaskier was cute, but Jaskier was partial to older partners, and well, usually men. Not that they hadn’t dated their fair share of women and nonbinary persons before; just that men made Jaskier’s tongue curl, electrified their nerves; they longed for calloused hands, back muscles rippling under skin, beard burn between their thighs and along their jaw.

And when Ciri had introduced her  _ gorgeous  _ daddy, Jaskier was hooked like a bad trip. Geralt had left his number to the graduate student at the end of the weekend, completely oblivious to his daughter’s massive crush on Jaskier (which Ciri would get over in the coming weeks when her absolutely gorgeous roommate would catch her eye) and well, who was Jaskier to deny such a  _ delectable _ specimen their company.

What followed was  _ heavy  _ flirtation via text, then sexts, then phone sex, and finally a weekend at Geralt’s secluded (yet somehow  _ massive _ ) home in Olympia, all  _ without  _ the knowledge of Ciri. 

Jaskier and Geralt just clicked--neither could explain it. They were almost like drawn to one another; Geralt to Jaskier’s big and open heart, musical talents, and absurd storage of inane knowledge and trivia; Jaskier to Geralt’s soft underbelly, his love for animals (and people, though he was loathe to admit it), his cooking, and the way he felt tucked around Jaskier at night.

And the sex, well that was just *chef’s kiss*.

Jaskier had never felt like this; never been in love, never felt so cherished, so sought after. They had more failed romances than successful ones, always falling too quickly in love and not quickly enough out of it. They pined and chased and almost always had to pick the pieces of their fragile heart up from the ground and place it back in their chest. 

But with Geralt, it was easy. There was no chase, no pining, it just simply  _ was _ . 

And that was scary.

And now, they were  _ too _ deep. It was almost seven months into their relationship and not a peep had been mentioned to Geralt’s family--in fact, most thought that the only interactions Geralt and Jaskier had were during the weekly campaign. In reality, they spoke for hours on the phone during the week, sent memes back and forth, had lengthy twitter and Instagram DMs, and Jaskier was prone to drive up to Geralt’s every other Saturday morning and stay through Monday, heading back early to make Ciri’s class, love bites carefully covered with a flamboyant ascot or kerchief.

Jaskier wasn’t sure how Ciri would respond; after all she did have a crush on Jaskier at one point, which could make things messy, and while Geralt insisted that everything would be fine, Jaskier knew that telling the family would mean that whatever this was would be real and that would mean that their feelings were real and the possibility of losing Geralt was real, too. 

And while Jaskier the bard was fearless, and seductive, and could not keep a secret to save their  _ damn life _ , Jaskier the doctoral student was very much in love and very much afraid of everything that meant. 

“We’ll figure it out, Jask, it will be ok,” Geralt said, noting Jaskier’s hesitation through the phone. 

They sighed and leaned up against the window of their bedroom, staring up at the moonlit sky, counting the stars and planets visible to them. 

“Hmmm,” they responded slowly. 

“Hey, that’s my line,” Geralt said with a laugh. “You’ll never believe what Roach did today—”

As their partner trailed off into details of his day, Jaskier let their eyes close and let the rumble of Geralt’s voice wash over them, letting them sink into their mind. 

They were rolling for love with a disadvantage; it was either going to be the worst campaign of their life, or their greatest adventure. 


	2. roll for perception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jaskier makes a new friend and eskel realizes a few things are afoot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! thanks so much for reading the last chapter. i updated some of the tags for this chapter, so check 'em out.

Jaskier stood amongst the rowan, gathering the red berries in their trusty satchel, humming a tune. Away from the group, Jaskier could make as much noise as they wanted to, for no one (read:  _ Geralt _ ) would yell at them for their inability to stay quiet. 

But oftentimes, the quiet was needed, as it would have allowed for Jaskier to hear their surroundings; including the crack of a branch underfoot. 

Jaskier was wrapped in thoughts of Geralt; the brute-ish leader of their adventure was on the bardlings last nerve; too many times had Geralt pushed Jaskier’s buttons about their music, their appearance, their personality, or whatever took Geralt’s fancy for the day. But this ended now. They would not endure the constant teasing anymore. 

“I’ll tell him off when I get back,” Jaskier announced aloud. “He’s being an ass and I’m sick of it.”

Jaskier wandered further through the grove to a small clearing where arenaria bloomed beneath the trees. Lambert and Geralt used the flower in potions, and despite Jaskier’s anger towards the latter, they picked some flowers. Arenaria was also an ingredient in the brew, White Gull, an infamous alcohol across the continent known for its hallucination inducing content. Jaskier had only tried it once and spent a rather lovely fortnight in a brothel fucking their way through every man, maiden, and mademosille before the effects wore off. 

The arenaria grove led way to a thicker grove of rowan trees, the sweet smell of the flowers giving way to a deep earthy scent that tickled Jaskier’s memories of their childhood in Lettenhove, where rowan trees filled the inner courtyard of their home. Their mother would gather the Pankratz children under the early spring leaves, showing them how to string berries on stiff cord to make necklaces for the daily festivals. She would recite poetry about the rowan, while running her hands through Jaskier’s hair as they focused on the task of necklace making. 

“How did that poem go?” Jaskier asked aloud as they wandered amongst the trees. “Oh rowan tree, oh rowan tree,/Thou'lt aye be dear to me,/Entwined thou art wi mony ties,/O' hame and infancy./Thy leaves were aye the first o' spring,/Thy flow'rs the simmer's pride;/There was nae sic a bonny tree/In a' the countrieside/Oh rowan tree!”

“Perhaps, I can find a few chords,” Jaskier commented after finishing the poem. 

They swung their lute around to their front and strung out a few chords, the soft twang echoing in the wood. 

Another crunch of leaves followed closely behind as they recited with music, the melody of the lute covering up the the noise.

They disregarded the obvious danger that was increasingly becoming present, instead opting to wander further from the group and into the rowan grove. 

It was only at the point where the sun had begun to set and a chill overtook the land that Jaskier realized they had indeed wandered too far from their guild and was hopelessly lost, not in the rowan grove, but a dense forest of yew trees.

They glanced around suspiciously as if attempting to determine where they came from when they heard the first snap of a branch. A small gasp left their mouth, as they whirled around to find the stalker in the wood.

“Who’s there!?” they called to the rapidly darkening wood. “Lambert? Ciri? If you’re trying to scare me, you’ve succeeded!”

Another twig snapped but this time was accompanied with a heavy breath that chilled Jaskier to the very bone. 

“Ok! Not funny anymore, who is it.”

Jaskier’s eyes went wide as a shadow fell over them and they sped around to be face to face with the body of a rather large black horse. Their eyes roved over the gleaming torso of the beast and reached up the neck towards the silken mane, and finally landed on the muzzle and head of the horse, where two golden eyes stared down at Jaskier. 

“Uh, hello?” Jaskier asked, cowering behind their lute. 

The horse whined and shook out its mane, and Jaskier immediately stumbled back, falling over their own feet and landing on their bottom. When the horse calmed, Jaskier glanced back up at the beast to find instead of two golden eyes, over a dozen staring back at them. 

Jaskier let out a blood curdling scream. 

***

Yennefer had always felt a certain kinship with Ciri. Despite not being related to the young ashed-haired woman, Yennefer acted as though Ciri were her charge, taking on the role of her teacher and friend and, though Yennefer only admitted this in private, her mother. 

(It also didn’t help that there was some history with Geralt that made this position feel all too similar; but Yennefer didn’t dwell on that. After all, Geralt had cheated on Yennefer with Triss, all under the guise of “losing his memory” or whatever that was. But now, even he and Triss were “on a break,” the honeymoon period not quite going the way that Geralt wanted. 

But anyways, back to Ciri.) 

Yennefer had known Ciri since her early teen years, helping her charge master the task of reining in her chaos and developing her innate magical skills. The two made an unlikely team--as Ciri’s biological parents had been killed by Tieflings before she had been adopted by Geralt, but were fastidious in their care for one another. Yennefer had the distinct ability to tell Ciri’s emotions; when the younger felt happy, Yennefer felt as though there were butterflies fluttering in her stomach; when she was angry or frustrated, Yennefer often received horrible headaches and the overwhelming desire to maim or kill whomever hurt Ciri. 

The two also shared an affinity for old books, potion making, and tricking men into horribly, embarrassing situations just for the fun of it. Yennefer (before she had met Geralt and his  _ lovely _ band of adventurers) was renowned for her party-throwing skills (the  _ orgasmic  _ variety) and often was found in some mayor’s home, ordering around pudgy men while swathed in black silk and lace. She, of course, had passed on the slightly dominatrix personality traits to Ciri, who would castrate a man if he so much as looked at her wrong (it had happened once; that was a bar fight to behold). 

Despite their penchant for murdering the opposite sex (which they didn’t do  _ all  _ that much, only when it was very deserved), the two were often found mixing new potions, reading from Elvish tomes, or reciting their Demonic in the courtyard of whatever inn they happened across. 

And even though Yennefer didn’t voice it often (or  _ ever _ , according to Triss), Yennefer loved Ciri more than anything in the world and would go to the furthest lengths for the girl—

And that is why, when the winter frost crept across the isle, Yennefer knew there was something terribly, terribly wrong. 

***

Jaskier’s departure had been just shy of a moment too long, so Geralt threw down the hunting knife near the mutilated siren corpses and took off towards the rowan where he had seen the bardling disappear. 

This was all too common on their adventures, Jaskier would run off and Geralt, like their keeper, would traipse after them, only to find them balls deep in some cuckold’s wife or daughter or son (or even the cuckold themselves once or twice). It irritated Geralt to no end, constantly saving the wayward bard from vengeful lords (it was humorous on  _ three _ occasions, but Geralt would never speak of which three times made him snort with laughter every time that he thought back to it).

He slugged through the muddy forest (which Jaskier would somehow also complain about, as if it was Geralt’s fault) and came upon the wood where he thought that the troubadour had wandered off to. However, the flamboyant counterpart was nowhere to be found, causing Geralt to sigh and focus his senses to find any trace of a track Jaskier had left behind. 

Trained in the halls of Kaer Morhen, the legendary stronghold of the Volk Clan, Geralt was well known for his skills as a tracker and fighter. The Volk Clan were made up of half-Orcs and Orcs, supposedly descended from Gruumsh, the unblinking, one-eyed god of destruction who unleashed the savage multitudes against outposts of civilization. The Volk were the mightiest of fighters, their fighting style a predatory and brutal combination of savagery and finesse. The Volk were also fastidious in their hatred of non-Orcs, especially humans and civilized society--the lessons of destruction and hatred were ingrained in half-Orc and Orc children alike. 

The ancient teachings of Gruumsh taught the Orc that their planet was sacred; that all life was to be respected and in turn, all life would respect the Orc. The Orc cared for the planet, cultivating her lands and celebrating the bounty that she gave them. However, at the Conjunction of Spheres, the Orcs, like their dwarvish and gnomish counterparts, were brutally ripped from their home and oasis and cast to the Continent. Here, monsters roamed and humans destroyed the planet, not caring for her bounty or her lands, only caring for their wants and desires. The peaceful Orc were killed in bloodthirsty displays of human anger, leading to the Orc congregating in high mountain keeps where humans dared not venture. The Orc then decided that only they could show the humans the errors in their ways of mistreating the planet and mounted attacks against the selfish beings. After fifteen hundred years of conflict, tensions had only grown and a full-scale battle may soon be upon them. 

Geralt, as the son of the Chief of Volk, was especially observant in his hatred of humans. His mother, a human sorceress, had abandoned him at the age of three at the foot of the Blue Mountains, unable to look past her son’s monstrousness. His father, Vesemir, had accepted Geralt into his home and crowned him as the successor to the Volk throne, should Vesemir ever perish in battle. Geralt had never heard how his mother and father came about, but a tutor in passing had mentioned that Geralt’s mother had tricked Vesemir into falling in love with her with the hopes of infiltrating Kaer Morhen and destroying the Volk. When Vesemir found out about this trickery, he cast her out, but she was already pregnant with Geralt. She fled with the child in hopes of keeping him as leverage; however, found herself ill-prepared to deal with an inquisitive and violent child like Geralt. It was then that she cast him out. 

At Kaer Morhen, Geralt grew surrounded by vast amounts of knowledge and an intense training regime that left him as a brutal fighter (the best in Kaer Morhen). Vesemire pushed him harder than any of the other trainees and Geralt often found himself subjected to violence in ways that his classmates never were. When Geralt turned fifteen, his father submitted him to the ancient training rights of Gruumsh, a training that no one had completed in five hundred years. Geralt was left in the wilderness beyond the keep and for forty days struggled against beats of the monster and human kind. 

Upon his return to the castle, Geralt was bestowed with a gift from Gruumsh, one that mutated his battle-ready body into something more monstrous; it enhanced his senses, gave him superior strength and speed; and turned every hair on his body an unearthly shade of white. With this blessing, Geralt was sent out into the world to destroy the very civilization that humans held so dear. 

However, after his journey down the mountain, he stumbled across a dead mother and father, a babe not three weeks old squirming and shrieking between them. The bodies had been picked clean, bandits most likely, the only things left were the clothes on the bodies and the blanket around the babe. Geralt summarised that she was half human at least and as he raised his steel sword to end her life, her cries quelled and she opened the most brilliant green eyes up at Geralt. His sword went back into his sheath and he gathered the bundle into his arms. 

“All life is sacred, little one, even yours,” he stated, looking down at this miracle in his arms. 

And with that he swung himself up onto his horse, making his way to the next town. He had initially planned to find the first healer woman and leave the babe with her, but he quickly found himself attached to the little one. He named her Cirilla, after the mother of Gruumsh, and tucked her against his chest. He picked up contracts slaying monsters that kept the duo fed and clothed and sheltered, leaving Ciri with local innkeeper’s wives or mages for the evenings. They continued like this for months until Geralt came across Triss, who watched the fast growing child when he hunted. Ciri grew up this way, learning healing techniques from Triss and hunting skills from Geralt, all while struggling with powers that were beyond either Triss or Geralt’s wildest dreams.

Because of Gruumsh’s gifts, Geralt made an excellent hunter. His senses were attuned to distinct emotional smells that emanated from every living being. He followed the smell of curiosity (which was like sunny day and sunflowers) deeper into the rowan wood, eyes peeled for tracks of the bard. When he came upon the arenaria-filled clearing, he noted which bushes had been picked over (and his heart slightly warmed at the sight), following the bard deeper into the forest. 

It was when he was almost halfway to the yew grove that he picked up Jaskier’s voice. The bardling did not sound distressed; however, the scent of fear (sour like pickled onions) hung heavy in the air. Geralt strode forward, hand reaching for his sword, ready to come upon some treacherous scene. 

As he entered into the yew grove, he was Jaskier standing in front of a massive black horse that dwarfed even the well-muscled elf. As Geralt crept closer, Jaskier petted down the muzzle of the horse and with horror, Geralt noted that the beast had thirteen eyes, four of which were staring straight at him, despite his creeping. The horse shook its head back and Geralt noted the six arms protruding from the front chest of the beast.

“Jaskier! Get away from it!”

The horse reared back as Jaskier turned in confusion towards Geralt. Upon noting that Geralt was ready to strike, the bard flung out their hands in surrender. 

“Stop, Geralt! They’re friendly!”

“That’s a fucking demon, Jaskier!”

“Their name is Greg!”

“Their name is what—?”

“Greg, they told me,” Jaskier comments, as if the name is the most obvious in the world. 

Geralt lowers his sword as the bard begins to pet the horse’s muzzle again, as if to calm it. 

“They told you?” Geralt asks, complete confusion seeping into his tone. 

“Yes, they also just said that it’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, but we really must hurry back to Yennefer and Triss.”

The horse demon nodded several times as if in agreement with the bard before stepping back and allowing for the young troubadour to climb aboard its back. Jaskier reached out their right arm towards Geralt and the fighter sighed before holstering his sword and swinging onto the back. 

“Since when do you speak Demonic?” Geralt asked, arms tight around Jaskier’s waist as the horse barreled out of the forest.

“It’s an elective at Oxenfurt, I thought it might be useful,” Jaskier stated and Geralt couldn’t help but laugh. 

***

The beast--Greg--slowed to a stop in front of a pacing Yennefer and a similarly worried Triss. 

“What’s wrong?” Geralt asked, sliding off of Greg’s back and reaching up to help Jaskier down. 

“Something terrible has happened,” Triss began but couldn’t get much out before Yennefer interrupted her. 

“Ciri has been taken by the Wild Hunt.”

“Whaaaaaaaa! The Wild Hunt! Are you fucking serious?!” Jaskier screamed, hands flailing and knocking over their water glass. 

Eskel, Lambert and Geralt all jumped back away from the table as water went everywhere and Ciri let out a bark of laughter as her uncles and father raced around attempting to stem the flow of water caused by Jaskier. 

“Do you even know what the Wild Hunt is, Jask?” Triss asked, watching this all from another end of a Zoom call. 

“Not a fucking clue, I just wanted to be dramatic,” they replied, taking a drag of their joint and mischiveously smiling at the darker haired friend. 

“Seriously, Jaskier?” Geralt asked grumpily. 

“What? I live for the  _ drama _ ,” Jaskier stated. “You’re looking at U Vancouver’s top drag performer for the past three years in a row.”

Geralt shook his head as he mopped up the spilled water as Lambert and Eskel returned to their respective seats around the massive kitchen island. 

Ciri and Jaskier had taken the early train from Vancouver that morning, landing in Seattle in the late morning, giving them time to refresh with naps and copious amounts of junk food that Geralt had stocked for his daughter. They were now into their third hour of D&D, and the sun was almost finished setting over the Puget Sound, casting the kitchen in warm pinks and red. The whole back of the house overlooked the Sound, with all the other sides surrounded by tall evergreen trees and forest grasses and wildflowers. The kitchen was bathed in river stone and deep green cabinetry and the focal point was the large island that everyone was gathered around (save for Triss and Yennefer who were Zooming in from their apartment in downtown Seattle). 

Jaskier wanted nothing more than to drag Geralt off to his lush master bedroom upstairs and have their way with the man, but there had hardly been a moment alone all day. Lambert had picked them up from the train (Geralt was at work), Eskel had taken them to lunch, and Ciri had been all but glued to their side all day. She nearly convinced Jaskier to share a room with her, but when Geralt heard all of this talk, he gently talked his daughter into letting Jaskier stay in the guest just across the hall from Geralt’s room. 

But still, no moments alone. Jaskier’s only hope now was an early end to D&D, none of the brothers sticking around, and a very sleepy Ciri (she was looking quite tired; but the other two seemed less and less likely). 

“Ok, sorry sorry, for that outburst, we can return,” Jaskier stated.

“Actually, that’s a great place to end for the night,” Eskel stated

“Wait!” Lambert called, sulkily, “Am I dead?” 

Eskel shrugged at his younger brother and began packing up the D&D gear. “Cub looks tired and I’m sure Jask is too--you’ll find out how I’ll torture, er, what happened to your character next week.”

Triss and Yen called their goodbyes as they logged out of Zoom and Geralt began gathering the snacks left out on the island. Lambert grumbled, beginning to pack up his things as Eskel finished the last of his beer and tossed the bottle into the recycling. 

“You’re leaving?” Geralt asked.

“Yeah, early morning, remember? Scorpion is having that growth removed.”

(Scorpion was one of the horses that Geralt and Eskel were fostering at their rehabilitation facility and had recently developed bone spurs on her left foreleg.)

Geralt hummed noncommittally and shot Jaskier a glance that spoke lengths about what was going to happen once everyone left the house. 

Ciri yawned and stretched, hugging both her uncles before making her way upstairs. Geralt ushered his brothers to the doors and after a few hasty goodbyes, retreated back to the kitchen where Jaskier was lounged against the counter. Geralt caged the younger up against the cold stone and tipped their head back, catching their lips in a heated kiss as the sun disappeared below the horizon and disappeared into inky black. 

***

“So how was tonight?” Vesemir asked, voice sounding staticy and far away.

Eskel shifted his grip on the phone, cradling it between his shoulder and ear as he dropped the tea bag into the compost bin and settled onto the couch. 

“Actually, surprisingly well.”

“Geralt didn’t murder Jaskier?”

Eskel thought back over the night and the stolen glances that he had caught onto between Jaskier and his younger brother. Something was there; neither was as vicious as they had been in past weeks on the phone. Maybe in person it was different? 

“No, it was odd.”

“Something I should know about,” Vesemir asked, caution rising in his voice. 

“Not sure, Pops, but I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

Vesemir chuckled and hung up, leaving Eskel to ruminate over the odd behavior by himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Jaskier reads 
> 
> D&D References  
>  Tiefling   
>  Half Orc   
>  Gruumsh
> 
> Witcher References  
>  Arenaria   
>  Conjunction of Spheres 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated.


	3. roll for persuasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ciri meets two elves, each with their own plans. jaskier confides in a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, welcome to trash fire part 3. i have some semblance of how this is going to go but knowing me, it will change about ten more times. also, this fic has made me start replaying Witcher 3 (happy birthday bby!) so go do that if you can. also, mind ur tags bbies (they've been updated)
> 
> **CONTENT WARNING**  
> in this chapter there is a negotiation of non-con between ciri and another character (similar to the plot line of the novels). the non-con never occurs. if this makes you uncomfortable, skip from "The next time she wakes..." to "Geralt lends Jaskier the Land..." and "It turns out that..." to "So now she was..."
> 
> additionally, there is a description of resetting a dislocated shoulder. if this makes you uncomfortable, skip from "Lambert awakes with a start" to "The forest is freezing cold."

The soft strumming of a guitar drew Geralt out of his restful slumber. His eyes blinked open, and he ran a hand over his face and through his hair, pushing up onto his elbows and looking around the room for his brunet partner. The balcony door was slightly ajar, letting a brisk early March breeze into the room, and the guitar music seemed to be floating from that direction. Geralt pushed himself fully into a seated position, before swinging his legs over the bed and making his way to standing. His knee creaked as he made his way up and a muscle in his back protested, but for forty-seven, aches and pains were expected (Eskel always joked that fifty made every ache and pain so much worse.)

Geralt pushed his way onto the balcony to find Jaskier curled up on an outdoor sofa, underneath a red wool, handmade Tulalip blanket, and one of Geralt’s old Washington State veterinary medicine hoodies. Jaskier had rolled the too-big sleeves up to allow for their fingers to dance across the strings of the guitar. A mug of tea and small kettle sat in front of the graduate student, steam pouring off of it into the early morning chill.

Geralt collapsed next to his partner, who shifted the blanket over Geralt’s shoulders too and pitched forward to pour the elder a mug of tea. Geralt accepted the beverage and leaned back as Jaskier made themselves comfortable again and resumed strumming the guitar. 

The sun had just begun to rise over the Sound, giving the morning a watery light under the constant cloud cover of the Pacific Northwest. From their perch on the southend of the Sound, Geralt could see kayaks taking to the water and if he squinted really hard, the distant hustle and bustle of Tacoma. 

“Think we’ll see any whales?” Jaskier asked, quietly, plucking the strings of the guitar as they looked out over the inlet. 

“Not typically this far south,” Geralt replied, moving their arm around Jaskier’s shoulder. “If we do, they’re transient whales, not from the local residential pods that hang out around the San Juan islands.”

“What kind of whales are they?”

“The sound is home to orcas, gray whales, humpback whales, minkes, fin whales, pacific white-sided dolphins, and pseudorcas,” Geralt listed off, dragging their hand against the soft fabric on Jaskier’s arm, causing Jaskier to move the guitar off their lap and snuggle into Geralt’s hold, resting their head against Geralt’s chest. “It’s actually a really good time for whale watching, maybe we can go up to Seattle one day and—”

“We’re supposed to be staying home,” Jaskier jokes. 

“Yes, boss,” Geralt responds, placing a kiss on Jaskier’s forehead and relaxing against the wood of the furniture. 

They stay like that as the sun rises over the tree line and disappears behind a cloud, bathing the world in a warm and muted light. They only move to grab tea and take a sip before falling back together into a comfortable silence. Jaskier drums their fingers against Geralt’s ribs in indiscernible patterns and Geralt contentedly listens to Jaskier breathe in and out with the temp. 

Geralt could get used to this, he thinks. The ease of how they fall together makes Geralt’s heart sing, but Geralt can tell that there’s something wrong with his partner. Maybe it’s the stress of the dissertation, the pandemic, or something all together entirely, but Geralt can sense the unease. 

Just as he opens his mouth to ask Jaskier what is bothering them, the door to Ciri’s room swings open and knocks against the wood, forcing the couple apart. Jaskier yanks the blanket back around them hiding the sweatshirt and becomes very interested in their mug. Geralt shivers at the loss of his partner’s warmth and goes to stand, approaching his daughter. 

“Sleep well, cub?” he asks, as she blearily rubs her eyes and adjusts to the morning light. 

“Yeah, have you seen Jaskier, their bed hasn’t been slept in---”

“Right here!” Jaskier chirps from behind Geralt. “I was up early and remade it. I saw the open balcony door from Geralt’s room and couldn’t resist.”

Ciri nods and collapses next to Jaskier, tugging the blanket over her. “Is that my dad’s sweatshirt?” She asks, taking in the grad student’s attire. 

“Uh—” Jaskier pauses, eyes frantically darting to Geralt. 

“Yeah, I left it out here last night,” Geralt struggles to come up with a convincing lie, but after a narrowing of her eyes, Ciri seems to accept the answer and snuggles deeper against Jaskier. 

Geralt leans against the railing and finishes his tea before pushing off and going back inside to change for work. He drops a kiss against Ciri’s head before he returns to the warmth of the indoors and almost does the same to Jaskier before catching himself. He acts as if there’s something in Jaskier’s hair, brushing it out with a too lingering touch before yanking his hand away if he’s been burned and stumbling back into his room.

They’re gonna have to tell Ciri sooner or later because Geralt’s unsure of how much longer he can keep this secret. 

***

Ciri blinks awake in a room she doesn’t recognize. The walls are covered in plush draperies that reminds her of the halls of Kaer Trolde, and a roaring fire warms the room. Above her is the canopy of a four-poster bed, covered in a red velvet and golden tassels that are too rich for her tastes, but obviously suit whomever lives here. She pushes up into a sitting position only to find that her typical huntress garb has been replaced by a blue green and gold gown, with a plunging neckline and a delicate train. Her hair has been styled in a low bun with braids interweaving throughout. A circlet sits atop her ashen hair, too tight for her and probably made with someone else in mind. She glances across the room to a mirror and takes in a breath. 

She hardly recognizes herself. 

Just then a door swings open and a person she’s never seen before enters the room. They wear the blue of Elven sages, a wooden staff in their hand, and a hood with red lining obscures most of their face. They are followed by the creature who kidnapped Ciri, the crown helmet removed, but the piercing icy eyes still remaining. 

“Ah, good to see you’re awake,” the first stranger states. “I am Avallac’h, a sage in the court of King Auberon Muircetach. And my counterpart is Eredin Bréacc Glas, the commander of the Red Riders,” they gesture to the imposing kidnapper. 

“Why am I here?” Ciri spits. “I do not care for your titles or whom you serve, take me back.”

Eredin snorts from behind Avallac’h, as they move closer to the fire and lean up against the mantle. If they weren’t so imposing, Ciri would almost have thought that they were attractive, but they scare her much too immensely for that. 

“I’m sorry, but we can’t do that my Lady,” Avallac’h responds, ignoring his companion’s much more distant approach. “You have something of ours.”

“Something of yours?” Ciri asks, incredulously. “I’ve never even met you before!”

Ciri feels her anger rising inside of her. These people have kidnapped her and taken her away from her family, her friends and now they demand something from her. She should cut them down where they stand. She begins to gather and harness the chaos in her, eyeing the exits of the room where she will make her escape. The sage is speaking in low tones to their counterpart, but Ciri pays them no mind. She’ll escape via the windows, make her way down to the stables, and steal a horse, before figuring out how to make it back to Skellige. 

“My Lady, we understand that this is a new place and you are scared but we are here to ease your transition into the role of Consort of the King,” Avallac’h begins, but Ciri doesn’t let him finish as she unleashes a high-register, eerie scream, blowing back the two intruders. 

She pushes the scream back at the two as they struggle against it, moving them into a corner of the room opposite the windows. She reaches the glass panes and steps up onto the sill, scream losing its power as she is distracted, and throws open the pane to find herself facing a world she does not know. 

She does not recognize the mountain range off in the distance and the sky is tinged a golden that never happens on the Continent. The building or palace she is in is done up in Elven architecture, all high pillars, marble, and growing vines. As she looks down to the courtyard, she does not see any humans milling about, instead only sees the high cheekbones and gemstone eyes of Aen Elle elves staring up at her. Twin suns beat down on the castle, momentarily blinding her of her escape plan. 

She has absolutely no idea where she is and no idea how she got here.

And as she whirls around to continue her assault on the elves, her scream rebounds against the sage’s magic and she loses all consciousness. 

***

Lambert awakes with a start, the woods around him unfamiliar. As he gingerly crawls to his feet, he notes a twinge in his ribs (probably  _ fucking  _ broken) and a pinch in his shoulder, signalling a dislocation. He grits his teeth, laying down on his back, and reaches the affected arm behind him, as if he was going to scratch his back. He walks his hand across his back to the opposite should and hears the satisfying  _ pop _ of the shoulder sliding back into its socket. The pain in his arm recedes and he staggers back to his feet. 

The forest is freezing cold and the cliff in front of him looms covered in ice and snow. It had been a pleasant evening, so unless he’s been unconscious for a whole season, magic caused this. He faces the cliff and begins the climb upwards to where he left Ciri before his unintentional descent down the slippery side. 

The injured ribs make the climb difficult, but he reaches the top in a decent amount of time. As he catches his breath, he glances around for the cub, but it seems as if she’s never been on top of the mountain. He takes a deep breath and straightens his body, ribs protesting, as he takes in the snowy summit. The wind blows something fierce and swirls the snow around his body before drifting off down the mountain.

The billowing snow uncovered a carved sigil in the ground that Lambert immediately recognizes as one of the Aen Elle. He lets out a growl as he prowls closer to the sigil, noting the smell of faint ozone smell of magic in the air.

Aen Elle had been here and they had portaled away, leaving the sigil behind. 

Lambert’s father had been an Aen Elle sympathizer, something that made him an outcast in their Dragonborn village. Lambert’s father had also been a drunk and had beat his mother, which made him less of an outcast, but still a monster in Lambert’s eyes. Lambert had run away from home before he had gotten old enough for his father to beat him, but he still remembered the way his mother would look with a black eye and split lip in the watery morning light. 

When Lambert was old enough, he returned to the village to kill his father, only to find that Aen Elle had ransacked it and murdered all in the village. The Aen Elle believed in their racial superiority and set out to murder and conquer worlds where humans and non-humans lived together. The Aen Elle believed this to be their divine right; that every world they encountered should have the sovereignty of their benevolent grace. Lambert hated the Aen Elle because of this; hated them for taking the victory over his abusive father from him; hated them for killing his mother who truly was good and pure of heart. He hated them. 

And now they had Ciri. 

And Lambert was out for revenge. 

***

The next time she wakes, Ciri is in a room without windows and a door in the ceiling. She is still in the ridiculous blue green monstrosity from before, but her hair is in disarray, and her shoes are missing. Avallac'h and Eredin are still here though, lounged against the wall, looking quite bored with her. 

“The walls are made of dimeritium, so let’s not try that again,” Avallac’h tells her snidely. She rolls her eyes. 

“Now, can we discuss this like adults?” Eredin chimes in. “I have other things to be doing.”

“Ah, yes, the ransacking of villages waits for no one,” Ciri spits. 

“We wouldn’t have to ransack if Lara Dorren hadn’t gone and  _ defiled  _ her bloodline with humans,” Eredin spits back. 

_Lara Dorren?_

“Who the fuck is Lara Dorren?” Ciri asks, gaze swinging back and forth between the two. 

Avallac’h sighs and turns to her. “Lara Dorren is your ancestor. She was an Elven sage after the Conjunction of the Spheres and a very powerful one at that. She was meant to bring our people to salvation. But she fell in love with a human mage, and the humans, who disliked that, murdered them both. But not before Lara’s daughter could escape and be adopted by Queen Cerro of Redania.”

They pause in their telling and turn to Ciri, looking for some bit of recognition on her face. There is none there.

“The descendants of Lara Dorren, which include  _ you _ , are regarded as special, for their magical gifts are considered to be very strong as they carry Hen Ichaer, Elder Blood,” Avallac’h states, sounding exasperated. “Your little stint in the Consort’s Suite showed us that you are the one that we have been searching for.”

“But why have you been searching for me?” Ciri asked incredulously. “I mean, surely, you have better things to do?”

“Lara Dorren stole the Elder Blood from the Aen Elle elves,” Eredin states. “You need to repay that debt.”

How? Ciri thought. How could she repay this perceived debt? With her life? Would they drain her of all her blood and then systematically inject it into the veins of the elves?

“You must have a child with King Auberon Muircetach,” Eredin states. “It is the only way to create a future for the Aen Elle. If you do not, you doom an entire people.”

An entire people. Ciri had the blood of a few men on her hands, but an entire people? She couldn’t, she wouldn’t let these people die all for some mistake of her ancestor. She couldn’t take that much blood on her hands. And then she would be able to see Geralt and Jaskier and Yennefer and Triss and even Lambert again. JUst a small task that could make everyone and everything better for these people. 

“I agree,” she said, softly. “I will bear a child for your king, but then you must let me return to the Continent. If not,” she said looking directly into the eyes of Avallac’h, before swinging her intense gaze to Eredin like Yennefer had taught her, “I will level this entire world and bathe in your blood for wronging me.”

***

Geralt lends Jaskier the Land Rover Discovery for their trip up to the Tulalip reservation. They’re supposed to meet up with their advisor, Dr. Ermion (or Mousesack as he likes to be called), before a brief meeting with the tribal Board of Directors and a tour of the reservation. Jaskier’s dissertation focused on the language and customs of the Tulalip people and the impacts that the pandemic has on it. They had initially just planned the project over the preservation of the Lushootseed language and the incorporation of it into schooling, but the pandemic ( _as_ _pandemics_ _usually do_ ) threw a few wrenches into that plan.

The drive north takes about two hours, but has beautiful views of the Sound and Seattle (where they get stuck in just _a_ _bit_ of traffic). Jaskier sings along to the music from the stereo and smokes a joint to calm their nerves, open windows and warm spring air blowing away the smoke. 

They pull into the parking lot of a nondescript office building, their advisor already outside the building and bogged down under various binders and books. Jaskier throws the vehicle into park and jogs up to the older scholar, unloading some of the texts until they can see their advisor’s face. 

“Ah, Jaskier! Glad you found the place and could make it out. Here’s a mask for you,” Mousesack stated, shifting the books to pass over the fabric mask. 

Jaskier shifted around the books in their arms before fitting the mask over their nose and mouth. They gave a thumbs up to Mousesack who then led the duo into the building. They walked down a long hallway which was lined with various tribal artwork and statues before entering a conference room with a long line of windows overlooking the Sound and forest below. 

“This is where we’ll set up camp,” Mousesack told Jaskier as they dumped books down onto the table top. “Priscilla will be along at the end of the week with the rest of the books that she pilfered from our offices.”

Priscilla was a Masters in History student and Mousesack’s current research student, whom Jaskier adored (and not just because she could make a mean lemon bar). 

After setting down the books, Jaskier sunk into the seat and pulled out their laptop, firing it up in order to connect to the WiFi. 

“You’re awfully quiet,” Mousesack commented, leafing through a book. 

“Hmmm?” Jaskier asked, not really paying attention to their advisor. 

“How is life with Geralt?” Mousesack asked teasingly. 

Jaskier turned bright red and refocused on their computer, leaving the question open. 

“Come on, give me something. Pris will weasel anything out of you by the end of this week but I want to have first dibs on the Jaskier gossip,” Mousesack implored. 

“Fine,” Jaskier snapped. “I’m upset.”

They connected to the WiFi before pulling several maps of the area over to them. Mousesack’s silence made Jaskier continue. 

“I know he doesn’t want this relationship to be a secret, but I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, and I feel like telling everyone will make them all angry at me,” Jaskier sighed. “And I don’t think I’m ready for this to be outside of us--it makes it real and that makes it scary.”

Mousesack sighed, before turning to his student. “Has Geralt’s family ever been one to shun you? Berate you? Turn their backs to you because of a mistake?”

“Well not as of yet, but—”

Mousesack gave Jaskier a rueful smile. “And has Geralt ever done anything to hurt you or make you think that he would hurt you?”

“I mean he stole my chicken nuggets once and that is a  _ high  _ offense, punishable by law—”

Mousesack let out a bark of a laugh and clapped Jaskier on the back. “Jaskier, my child, you can’t outrun destiny just because you’re terrified of it. You must face it, head on. Only then, can you truly be free.”

***

It turns out that seducing a king who hates humans more than anything in this god-for-saken world was a lot harder than Ciri thought it was going to be. For weeks, she had tried every trick, every glamour, every spell she knew to get this damn  _ bastard _ into bed all for the sake of his own fucking race, only to be pushed out because her blood smelled wrong or she looked wrong or some other excuse. 

And Ciri was  _ tired _ . 

So finally, when Eredin had approached her with a solution, she readily agreed to it. The solution was a natural aphrodisiac in a potion that would lower the inhibitions of the king—

But instead of creating a magic dick enhancer, Eredin poisoned the king, blamed Ciri, and sent out his riders to track her down and kill her. 

So now, she was sprinting through a forest, downing trees left and right behind her as she ran and attempted to figure out how to get out of this shit hole of a world. 

It was now her fifteenth minute of running in circles, attempting to center her magic enough to call out to Yennefer for a portal? She didn’t even know what to do. 

She was  _ tired _ . 

So when on her twenty-third minute of circling, a unicorn approached her? She stopped and looked directly at the animal, snapping an irritable “What!?”

“My Lady,” the horse had the audacity to look affronted. “We have a way for you off of this world if you accept our help.”

“Thank fuck, I am ready to murder some elves,” she stated, following the herd back into the forest.

She climbed aboard the back of one of the unicorns and they set off. They led her through the forest, carving a path through the gigantic trees that she hoped no Red Rider would ever be able to follow. The herd finally took her to a cliff, overlooking a barren wasteland filled with a peculiar grey like ground. The breeze picked up and Ciri got the whiff of decomposing bodies and when she looked down again off the cliff, she realized that the greyness was not the ground, but the bodies of thousands of humans. 

“What is this?” she asked the unicorns. 

“The Aen Elle destroy every world they go to. This used to be a human world, humans we lived in harmony with before the Aen Elle massacred them. You must not let them come to your world, my Lady, for they will destroy it too.”

Ciri gaped at the bodies below her, feeling bile rise in her throat, biting at the back of her teeth. She swallowed, steeled her nerves and turned to the unicorns. 

“How do I leave this place?”

“You have the power inside of you,” one unicorn stepped forward. “You must jump to another world.”

“But I have no idea how,” she replied, feeling at once very lost and confused. 

“I will show you,” the unicorn replied before guiding her back into the forest and turning to face the cliff. 

“Are you prepared, my Lady?”

Ciri took a deep breath and nodded before climbing onto the horse. Then the horse took off at a breakneck speed, galloping to the cliff and the maw of the valley. Wind swept around them, bringing tears to Ciri’s eyes as they barreled towards the edge before being thrown forward. 

It was as if Ciri’s instincts took over and she formed a portal just in front of where the horse had launched itself, swirling with green vapor and tiny bolts of lighting. 

_ To the Continent _ , she thought as the unicorn plunged into the jade depths. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tulalip (Tuh’-lay-lup) Tribe 
> 
> Witcher References  
>  Auberon Muircetach   
>  Lara Dorren 
> 
> I love reading your comments! Thanks for all the love on this!


	4. roll for stealth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ciri's escape, lambert (maybe) figures something out, and yennefer definitely does

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is so late and so short; last week was a clusterfuck with my work and the general state of things in the world, so it really ruined my writing and all/any feelings of creativity. 
> 
> it's short. i'm sorry. 
> 
> hope you all are doing well.

The thought bubbles to the front of his mind as he lays sweaty and sexually sated in Aiden’s arms after a vigorous round of  _ it’s a Tuesday afternoon during quarantine _ sex, thighs sticky with a mess of bodily fluids, and a soft smile gracing his lips. Aiden looks about two seconds away from nodding off into oblivion, but Lambert knows that he has a Zoom call in thirty minutes with his boss about budget cuts and Lambert should probably pretend that his anxiety doesn’t exist and complete that story his editor has been hounding him for. 

But the thought is important; important enough to forget about the Zoom calls and the crushing panic of a deadline. So he places his chin onto his husband’s chest ( _ just over his heart _ ) and speaks in an orgasm-wrought voice.

“I think there’s something going on between Geralt and Jaskier.”

Aiden opens one brilliantly colored honey eye at his husband before settling back into his faux nap. 

“Good for them.”

Lambert huffs a laugh and twines his body further around Aiden. A small yip echoes off from the side of the bed and Lambert softly whistles. Coên, the Golden Retriever puppy the couple just adopted, launches onto the bed and settles between their chests in a small gap just for him. Lambert resettles and lets his eyes close, twin heartbeats lulling him into a nap. 

_ Yeah, good for them. _

***

The jade mist swirls away from Ciri’s body and she slams into the ground, limbs sprawling about, knees aching on impact. Her dress rips on the branches below her and she sucks in deep breaths, attempting to get her panicked breathing under control. As she gasps in deep lungfuls of clean air, she glances around her and begins to notice the familiar woods of the Continent and Ard Skellige. A group of deer are gathered in her left periphery and her hands clutch and unclutch against bloodmoss and nostrix patches. 

“CIRI!” a scream comes from her right and she staggers to her feet, hand already on her bow, ready to face the unknown. The voice sounded like Yennefer, but there was no way that the sorceress knew where she would be. Maybe the woods were playing tricks on her? 

But then a hand came down on her shoulder and she glanced up into the deep set eyes of Avallac’h, startling her out of the trance.

“How?” she gasped.

“I snuck in behind you, Zireael,” he chuckled, “You are a slippery, slippery one.”

His hand grips her shoulder harder, and he drags her back through the forest, his voice droning on about how she’s ruined everything, how she’s just like Lara Dorren, how he is so sick of everything about humans. She struggles against his hold but the sage must have magicked the grip, meaning no matter how she struggles, she is held against his lithe body. 

As he drags her, she hears the noises of something else following them through the forest. Avallac’h grips her shoulder harder and she knows that he can hear them too, so she struggles even more against his grip. She’s still in some ridiculous dress from Tir ná Lia, silk and satin staining from the undergrowth, and the dress keeps getting caught under her as she is dragged, but she doesn’t let that stop her from attempting to escape Avallac’h’s grip. 

“HELP!” She screams out, voice raw and scratchy and the trees in her periphery shake and shudder as whomever is chasing them causes them to fall and split from their trunks. 

She wrenches her shoulder one last time and breaks away from Avallac’h’s grip, springing towards the trees and her possible saviors. Avallac’h curses in Elder and gives chase after her, storming after her. 

She shoots a spell behind her as she makes way for the clearing, rounding a tree and seeing her adventure group right in front of her: Yennefer’s hair askew and chaos dancing around her fingertips; Triss with a fireball ready to be loosed on whomever comes too close; Geralt, silver sword catching the light and sunk into a defensive stance; power pulling toward Jaskier, who’s lute is at the ready to wreak havoc; and Lambert, arm in a sling, but still somehow still gripping dual daggers, a wild grin covering his features. 

And Ciri smiles for the first time in weeks. 

Geralt lets out a soft  _ Ciri _ as he makes his way to his daughter; however, his attention is quickly diverted to the action behind him as Avallac’h bursts into the area. Ciri shoots a terrified glance at him and her friends--no, her family--responds in turn, attacking the lithe sage. 

And just as Ciri steps even close to her family, the clearing turns icy cold. She whirls around to see Eredin and his knights break in from another direction; distracting both Avallac'h and the adventurers. 

If Eredin catches her, Ciri knows that she’ll be taken back to Tir ná Lia, where she’ll be forced to complete unspeakable acts, things that she doesn’t even want to entertain with thoughts. 

Snow has begun to fill the clearing, swirling around the bodies of the adventurers and obscuring them from one another, and Ciri knows that this is her escape. She can save her friends, and draw Eredin and Avallac’h away, if she just  _ goes _ . 

She draws in a deep breath, harnesses the swirling green of space and time, and  _ jumps _ . 

***

Yennefer passes another hand through her hair as she stares down at the pile of cases on her desk. They range in all forms of domestic cases and disturbances— but Yennefer just doesn’t quite have the heart to go through them just yet. She’s ten ways of exhausted, and has been battling online with city prosecutors for almost eight hours with no end in sight, and coupled with the lack of sleep that she’s been getting because Triss is pulling back to back to back twelve hour shifts (all without correct gear), means her anxiety is very very high and her patience is very very thin. 

So when she runs into Jaskier in the Trader Joe’s after work, her nearly always impeccable appearance rather disheveled, she nearly fucking loses it. 

She loves Jaskier.  _ Really _ . She was hesitant at first upon the introduction to the graduated student, but if Ciri loved them, then who was Yennefer to deny her niece the niceties of her friendship. Jaskier brings a certain air to the campaign. And if they annoy Geralt just to make Yennefer laugh, then Yennefer can accept them into the group.

But the problem with Jaskier is that they’re a talker. More of a rambler, but definitely a talker. And after the week that Yennefer has had, she really just wants to buy her Everything But the Bagel spice, kale gnocchi, and Green Goddess dip in peace before going home to her incredible gorgeous but similarly exhausted partner, take a bath, and pretend this day never existed.

“Yen!” Jaskier waves from the preservative display where a jar of organic watermelon spread is clutched between lithe fingers. 

“Hey, Jask,” Yen starts but Jaskier has already launched off into their non-stop chatter. 

Yen hears something about their dissertation, something about a mouse’s ballsack (?), something about Ciri, a mention of dinner, and wait--

“Wait, you and Geralt are dating?”

“Uh,” Jaskier stammers. “What, no?”

“I thought you said that you and Geralt were dating.”

Jaskier sighs and runs a hand through their already-messy mop.

“Well, not dating, we’re not putting labels on it—” Jaskier trails. 

“So it’s new? Recent? I mean you’ve only been in Washington, what three weeks?”

Jaskier blushes even further and stammers, but Yennefer is a lawyer and now she’s interested, so she arches a perfectly manicured eyebrow and stares down the graduate student. 

“Since September, parents weekend,” they sigh. 

“You all are dating,” Yennefer states. 

“It’s not official or anything! Seriously, no one knows.”

“Oh and I’m sure Geralt just loves that,” Yennefer sneers. 

“What do you mean by that?”

“I’ve known Geralt since junior high. I lied to him once in junior high trying to surprise him for his birthday and he has never let me live it down. The man hates secrets.”

Jaskier gulps but Yennefer is already on a roll. 

“One time, I kept a secret from him and he literally didn’t speak to me for three weeks. Not a word! And keeping a secret from Ciri? I mean that’s like a civil offense practically--the man adores his daughter and would never do anything to hurt her. This secret will crush her!”

Yennefer thinks she sees tears in Jaskier’s eyes and she halts, letting her brain catch up with what she’s just said. 

_ Oh no _ . 

But before she can even reach out to Jaskier to comfort them, they abandon their cart and tear out of the aisle. Yennefer is left with two full baskets, a shit ton of slowly expiring dairy, and a sinking feeling of dread in her stomach.

  
_ Fuck _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos are my friends!


	5. roll for arcana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jaskier is really angsty, ciri is in trouble, and geralt is confused

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is angstier than i expected? like fuck.

Geralt’s just pulling the vegan loaf out of the oven when the front door slams shut. Heavy footsteps make their way away from the kitchen and down the hall to the bedrooms, and then a bedroom door echoes the front door with a loud bang.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” he calls questioningly to the upset college student.

Ciri is out at Vesemir’s for a few days, helping his aging father around the small bee farm with repairs and setting up an online shop for the products. She also didn’t tend to slam doors, meaning that Jaskier was back from Trader Joe’s, sans groceries, meaning something had happened. 

Geralt sighed and turned the oven off, giving them mashed potatoes one last stir before making his way down the hallway towards his room. He heard the sound of the waterfall shower echoing off the tiled walls and a few sniffles, meaning something had gone very very wrong at the grocer. 

Geralt pulled his shirt and loose sweatpants off and entered stealthily into the steamy bathroom. He snuck in behind his partner, steeling his hands against Jaskier’s taught abdomen, and tucking his face into the crease between Jaskier’s neck and shoulder. Saltwater dripped down off of Jaskier’s prominent jawline and onto Geralt’s nose, before sliding down to his lips. 

Jaskier is crying.

Geralt pulls them closer, caressing hands across their lower abdomen. Jaskier shudders and shakes in his arms, the sound of the sobs almost drowned out by the sloshing water, but still audible to Geralt. 

They stay like this for moments, Geralt buried into the neck of the grad student, tears flowing freely, water easing against overheated and emotionally reddened skin. 

Finally, Jaskier turns in Geralt’s arms, lips meeting his across the divide in the shower. The kiss is full of heat and Geralt’s confused; wasn’t Jaskier just crying? His thoughts race as Jaskier bites his lower lip and suckles on it, teeth clicking against his. He tries to pull away, but Jaskier only grips him closer, forcing their tongue into Geralt’s mouth and giving enthusiastic moans, attempting to spurn Geralt on. 

“Wait, Jask, fuck,” Geralt breathes, breaking away from the kiss and pushing the other slightly back. 

“What?” Jaskier says with a laugh, but Geralt can see the hurt in their eyes. 

“Why are you crying?” Geralt asks, taking the other’s face in his hands and stroking along high cheekbones. 

“Oh, the research stuff was just really hard today,” Jaskier swallows, looking away from Geralt. 

Geralt knows that they’re lying. But the thing about Jaskier is that pushing never gets Geralt anywhere and Jaskier will talk when they want. 

Geralt sighs and looks into his partner’s eyes again, searching for answers. He doesn’t find any, so he leans his forehead up against Jaskier’s lips (Jaskier is only  _ slightly  _ taller than Geralt, which means lots of forehead kisses for Geralt when they stand together like this), and the other presses his lips into the smooth expanse, as they reach behind them to turn off the water. 

“Come on,” they joke, pulling Geralt from the steamed-up bathroom and to the luxurious king bed in the other room. “I love Ciri, but I’ve also been dreaming of your cock in my ass for a weeks and her being around has been the biggest blue balls I’ve ever—”

Geralt pounces on the younger, lips meeting the other, effectively silencing them, as they tumble down to the sheets together. 

Neither speaks coherent thoughts for a while. 

***

She tumbles out of the portal and lands knee deep in a swamp, dirty water splashing up to her knees and soaking the satin bottom of the dress. A gutteral shriek sounds from off to her left, as she pulls the bow slung from over her shoulder and notches an arrow. She quickly draws the weapon and whirls around, losing an arrow into the blue fleshy skull of a drowner. She notches another and quickly takes out the other two that have sprung from the water, moving back out of the disgusting water and towards the road. 

Eyes alert, she watches the water for more creatures, while also making her way down the road that seems to be covered in trees with candy dangling from the branches and shorn off ears ( _ what the fuck?! _ ). She spots a village and all but hightails it out of the swamp towards the area.

As she sprints down the road, the surrounding swamp bursts into fervor, drowners and water hags pushing out the their watery graves like the most disappointing daisies, and Ciri notches arrow after arrow, losing them into the air and hoping they meet their prey. From the water logged screams, she’s right. 

She dodges a mud splatter from a water hag just as she crosses the road into the village, but a powerful spell out of nowhere knocks her off her feet, tossing her to the ground. Her head smacks against a misplaced stone and just before she loses consciousness, three hideous figures shadow her body.

***

_ Hey _

**Yes, Geralt?**

_ Hypothetically _

_ Let’s say _

_ Something is wrong with someone you care about _

_ And you don’t know how to get them to talk abou it _

_ about* _

**And waiting isn’t an option?**

_ Hypothetically say this person is living with you _

_ And it’s making things awkward _

**...**

**Are you being mean to Jaskier?**

_ What _

_ No _

**Geralt**

_ Ok, forget it Triss _

**No wait, I want to help**

**Maybe make them dinner?**

**Help them with something?**

**Maybe if they see that you’re willing to talk,**

**they’ll open up?**

…

**Geralt?**

_ That might work. _

**Let me know how it goes.**

***

Jaskier affectionately pats Greg’s nose, slipping the demon a sugar cube, before moving out of the stables and towards the Rosemary and Thyme. The dilapidated brothel stands just near the Heirarch’s Gate in Novigrad, it’s three story structure dwarfing all the buildings surrounding it. Jaskier had been gifted the building after the death of some nobleman or another, and eventually, when they have enough money, they’ll sink it into the building, turning it into a real-life cabaret. 

But now, there’s more pressing matters. 

After Ciri’s disappearance in Skellige (which nearly leveled the entire forest), the scary crown man (“Eredin, King of the Wild Hunt, Jesus, Jaskier.”) had shouted something in Elder (“Va fail, elaine - caed' mil, folie! glaeddyv dorne aep t'enaid, bunn'droh ithne i'yachus; someone should remember.”) causing the other scary man (“Elven sage, dude.” “Don’t dude me, Lambert.”) to turn into something (“Yeah, I’m not really sure? Eskel?” “Not telling you.”), and then disappeared into the growing snow storm. 

The adventurers were highly confused, searched the area, talked to the local jarl, stole a priceless mask, got yelled at by a druid, and ended back in Novigrad with a cursed Elven sage, a demon masquerading as a horse, and a adventure group minus Ciri. Yennefer had muttered about needing a phylactery (“What the fuck is a phylactery; hey Siri, what is a phylactery?” “In art history, speech scroll is an illustrative device, denoting speech, song, or in rarer cases, other types of sound.” “What the  _ fuck _ .” “It’s a box, Jaskier.” “Ok, in  _ Dragon Age _ , it’s a mage’s blood, I’m just trying to keep up here.”) and Jaskier happened to know a guy who knew a madame who knew a guy named Whoreson Junior, who dealt in arcane objects and also happened to run part of Novigrad, meaning the Redanian guards wouldn’t bother them. 

Upon arriving in Novigrad, the adventurers met up with Zoltan Chivay, an old friend and smuggler, who, with Lambert, was tasked (by Yennefer) with finding ingredients for the Trial of Grasses potion, an ancient right of Demonic origin that helped rid troubled souls of curses and bound them to the master that freed them (“It will probably kill the sage.” “Yen!” “What, optimism isn’t my thing.”). Triss had wandered off to find some mage friends who may know more about the curse, which mean that Geralt and Jaskier were left to wander Novigrad on their own. 

“Maybe you should find Ciri,” Yennefer had suggested, but the two barely even knew where to start. 

Jaskier had suggested wandering around the taverns in the city as they knew most of the bartenders, innkeepers, and whores who frequented them. Geralt, and their monosyllabic content, followed Jaskier’s eager bounding through the city, watching them flit from open stall to open stall, and only stopping every so often to chat with the odd harlot or beggar on the street. 

Jaskier led them to the Passiflora, the renown whore-house in the city where politicians and princes heartily played gwent and plowed the same whores. Jaskier greeted the Madame like an old friend and settled against the bar, prostitutes, both men, nonbinary, and women alike flocking to the bard, as Geralt scanned the room. Geralt tried to ignore Jaskier’s tall tales as they size up the group of people in the room, honing their senses to the chatter and conversation in the brothel. 

A group of soldiers gathered along the wall with whores atop their laps laugh and joke about a recent boar hunt, drawing Geralt’s attention. 

“And then that ashen haired lass shot ‘em through the eye!” One loudly guffaws, causing Geralt to quickly stand and make his way over to the group. 

“This woman?” Geralt asks, stunning the soldiers out of their reprieve. “Green eyes? Half-elf? A compound bow? Bluebird feathers on her arrows?”

“Yes, why do you ask, mutant,” the lead soldier spits and Geralt sighs. 

Across the room, Jaskier untangles themselves from the prostitutes and makes their way over to the scene that Geralt is inevitably going to cause. “We’re looking for her. Close-friends,” they state, arm resting on Geralt’s shoulder. “Where did you kill the boar?” they ask, seduction and charm lacing their tone and making the group more susceptible to Jaskier’s suggestions

“Near Crow’s Perch. Baron is hosting her.”

“Thank you, my kind kinspeople,” Jaskier said with a flourish, all but dragging Geralt away before the fighter can start a fight (“Hehe.” “Fuck off.”). They make their way out of the brothel and into the quickly darkening evening, the Velen sun dipping below the buildings and casting the city in pinks and reds. Jaskier halts along the the blooming hollyhock, picking idly at the flowers.

“So we know where she is.”

“Crow’s Perch,” Geralt nods. “I need Roach, it’s about a three days ride.”

“What if I accompany you?” Jaskier asks. 

“Why?” Geralt asks. 

Jaskier gestures around them. “I’m not much help here and I also love Ciri—”

They trail off, looking over towards the fighter. They step slightly closer to Geralt and Geralt holds his breath as a hand reaches out to them and rest alongs his arm. Lute calluses stroke along the leather and Geralt feels himself perceptively sink into the touch. 

“Let me help,” Jaskier pleads and Geralt finds himself nodding along. 

A smile breaks across Jaskier’s face and they shout gleefully. “Adventure!”

Geralt sighs. This could be a mistake, but he’ll happily agree to anything if he gets to see Jaskier smile again.

***

Geralt has plied them with a vintage from Sonoma, enough vegan cauliflower buffalo wings to feed a vegan football team, and is bringing out the main course of chickpea pasta with roasted veggies and whole wheat garlic bread, when Jaskier realizes something is up. 

Geralt, in all the goodness that he is, hasn’t mentioned Jaskier’s little shower breakdown earlier this week, but he seems to have noticed that everytime he asks Jaskier if they are ok, Jaskier immediately attempts to seduce the older partner. And while that has turned into some  _ incredible, mind-melding sex _ , it’s an avoidance technique if Geralt has ever seen one.

This meal is an olive branch. 

Jaskier should take it. 

But everytime they open their mouth to explain the off-mood for the whole week, Yennefer’s words bubble to the surface and they slam their mouth shut so fast, they’re afraid they’re injuring their teeth. 

So instead, they twirl the orange spaghetti around on their fork and heartily shove the food down their trap. If their mouth is empty, everything will come out in the form of word vomit, so food, wine, and cock have kept it very preoccupied this week. 

Geralt just hums along and eats his dinner while Jaskier’s guilt eats away at them. 

They retire to the upstairs porch after a flirtatious dishwashing session, a new vintage red open between the two of them and a joint dangling from Jaskier’s fingers. They half-heartedly suck at the Oregon weed, their anxiety monster rearing its ugly head inside of their brain replaying the frankly shocking scene from the grocer over and over and over again. 

“Jask, I—” Geralt starts, but Jaskier barrels through what might have been a decent conversation into an anxiety-riddled ramble. 

“So Mousesack thinks I can graduate this spring, which means, I mean, like, immigrating here, like real deal, and working with these people for the rest of my life, which is very exciting, but I also like, looked at a few post-docs in Arizona and Florida, and—”

“Wait, moving?” Geralt asks surprised. 

“Yeah, I mean, academia means traveling a lot, and the program at Florida State looks really promising and Mousesack has an in with a professor there and—-”

“But, I mean,” Geralt starts, swirling this wine. “You had been so excited a few months ago to move here, and do work here through U Washington?”

Jaskier stills--they had told Geralt that was the plan after graduation. Mousesack had gotten Jaskier an interview with the chair of the history department and Jaskier had already done most of the work like an on-campus interview and a teaching seminar in the application process.

But would Geralt even want to do this, whatever this was, after graduation?

What if Yennefer was right? What if Geralt just wanted a quick fling and that was that? Jaskier had planned to do U Washington because that meant moving in with Geralt and making this official--but what if the secret was too much for him to bear? Jaskier knew when they weren’t wanted and it would break their heart to stay in the area after Geralt had dumped them to the curb.

“And I mean, I can’t leave here,” Geralt starts, “Not with the rescue taking off and long distance is difficult even with you in Vancouver.”

Jaskier swallows the lump in their throat. It seems like Geralt doesn’t even want to try. And why should he follow around some indecisive graduate student? Jaskier isn’t worth it. 

“I mean, this isn’t like official,” Jaskier states, gesturing between the two of them all while their brain screams at them ( _ no no no no no no, why are you doing this, this is bad, what are you doing, no stop, stop, stop, stop _ ). “So, like, you know,” they wave their hand dismissively while watching Geralt’s crestfallen expression. 

The two are silent for a moment, staring out over the Sound, blunt burning low and wine taking on an ash-like flavor. 

“If that’s what you want,” Geralt states, voice thick with emotion. 

Jaskier tosses the bud over the railing and stands, tears streaming down their face as they make their way inside to the guest bedroom.

_ No.  _

_ No, this isn’t what they want at all. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all of your lovely comments and kudos! i appreciate them so much <3


	6. roll for animal handling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few notes:
> 
> cw for gruesome death, abuse, violence against women, and gore (tags have been updated)  
> if you're uncomfortable reading, skip from "(“This shit’s gonna have nuts in it.”)" to "Geralt dumps the leftover roasted rabbit and root vegetables"
> 
> also:  
> i wanted to tell you all about the timeline (what timeline) because i realize I haven’t. There are two timelines: the modern day timeline and the D&D campaign playing timeline. The modern day story takes place over the span of four weeks (yennefer finds out abotu geraskier around week three, and then everything goes to shit in about a week leading up to the final D&D campaign meeting). The D&D timeline is told in two meetings: one at the beginning of March and one at the end (coming up in Chapter 9), so Jaskier and Geralt are pretty lovey-dovey & friendly in this chapter during the campaign, despite the way the last chapter ended, because this is technically in the past. i hope this makes sense?

Eskel is knee deep in literal horse shit when the squeak of the gate signals to him that he’s no longer alone in the horse barn. He blows out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding and sets the pitchfork down, wiping his hands on his coveralls and stepping into the aisle. 

Jaskier is leaning up against Scorpion’s door, stroking the black stallion’s muzzle, murmuring soft words to the animal that Eskel can’t quite make out. Eskel turns, heads into his makeshift barn office and strips out of the disgusting coveralls and muck boots before making his way back out into the main barn area and over to the visitor. 

“Jaskier,” he says in greeting, pulling down the grooming tools for Scorpion and thrusting them into Jaskier’s arms. 

“What do you want me to do with this?” Jaskier asks. 

Eskel gestures for Jaskier to step away from the stall door so that he can enter, loosely bridle Scorpion, and then exit the stall, leading the stallion out into the main aisle to be tied up and groomed. 

“Uh, Eskel?” Jaskier asks, still confused on their purpose in the barn. 

“I find that grooming Scorpion helps me think through some things,” Eskel states noncommittally. 

“Do I really look that troubled,” Jaskier asks, anxiety rising in their voice. 

“No, but you just told me that you are,” Eskel jokes, tossing the curry comb to the graduate student. “Also, you’ve never shown up here before, so I figured that my brother is either being a magnanimous ass, or something else is up.”

Jaskier sighs and stares down at the brush in their hands. “How do I use this?”

“Gentle circles all over, pointy-ish side down. I already groomed him once today but he was out with Roach and Lambert’s horse, Nocturne, and our new rescue, so he might need an additional brushdown.”

They settled into a companionable silence, Eskel running a comb through Scorpion’s mane and braiding the silky hair into various patterns and braids, Jaskier brushing, at first with hesitancy, then with more confidence as time went on. After Eskel was done with the mane and tale, he switched to the hoof pick, instructing Jaskier to brush down Scorpion with the soft brush from the head to the neck, the chest, withers, and foreleg all the way down to the knee and even the hoof, the back, side, belly, croup, and, finally, the hind legs all the way to the hoof. He instructed that Jaskier be careful around the bandages on Scorpion's front foreleg, but that the horse could handle a little rough brushing. Eskel also instructed that Jaskier keep one hand firmly on the horse’s body as not to scare the gentle beast.

Eskel had almost finished picking Scorpion’s hooves when Jaskier spoke up. 

“He wasn’t…”

“He wasn’t what?”

“Geralt wasn’t being an ass,” Jaskier states, placing the brush on the stall door and coming around to Scorpion’s front. 

Eskel set down the pick and went to get the soft mints that he sometimes snuck the horses when Geralt wasn’t around, placing one in Jaskier’s hand before approaching Scorpion, palm flat, mint centered on the flesh. The soft mouth of Scorpion collided with his hand, small specks of spit landing on the palm, but otherwise a very clean endeavor. Eskel gestured for Jaskier to do the same, the grad student giggling at the soft, ticklish hairs on Scorpion’s muzzle as the stallion inhaled the soft mint. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Eskel asked, unhooking Scorpion’s bridle and leadings the horse back into the stall, before closing the door and loading fresh hay into the feedbucket.

He checked the water level before turning back to Jaskier, eyebrow lifted at the younger.

“I don’t know,” Jaskier replied. 

Eskel shrugged and made his way out of the barn, Jaskier wordlessly following behind. Eskel led the younger to the padlock where Roach was munching peacefully on some of the tall grass and Nocturne was frolicking along with the other mare. Eskel leaned up against the fence, one booted foot caught in the fence, elbows resting against the top wood, Jaskier copying their movements against the fence. Roach takes interest in the two humans and saunters over, mane flicking idly in the late afternoon breeze. 

“Careful, she bites,” Eskel warned as Roach stepped up to Jaskier, nuzzling against the younger and whinnying quietly. 

Jaskier giggled and reached a hand out, stroking along Roach’s mane and giving the mare affectionate pats. “Miss Roach and I are old friends, she wouldn’t bite me,” they say. 

Eskel smirks. Guess his predictions about his brother and the grad student were right. 

“When did you get introduced?” Eskel asks, gesturing to the horse. 

“Hmm, I think you were out of town? November, maybe?” Jaskier guesses. “I sneak her apples, so that’s why she likes me.”

“I’m sure Geralt loves that,” Eskel says with a grin, and almost misses the way that Jaskier stills and tears fill their eyes. “What’s going on, Buttercup?”

“Why is it so hard to love people?”

“What do you mean?”

“My brain, it doesn’t want me to be happy. Every time I get even close, it lets loose this ugly anxiety monster that ruins everything.”

Eskel watches Jaskier pet the horse, hands performing the same repeated motions. 

“This is about Geralt, right?”

Jaskier sighs and leans away from Roach and the fence. “I think I love him. But I don’t think I’m good enough for him.”

Eskel thinks back over the past few weeks, months even, how Geralt paid attention to Jaskier when he thought no one was looking; how he got a secretive little smile when certain texts came through; how the two gravitated toward one another in person, like two lost souls finding a home in one another. 

But Eskel has also noticed that Jaskier has become increasingly irritable and anxious in their meetings lately and as a person who works in horse therapy and has a degree in clinical psychology, he recognises the symptoms of generalized anxiety. And he surmises that its affecting the relationship that Jaskier has with Geralt more than the grad student is letting on. 

“Two things,” Eskel starts, turning towards Jaskier, the other doing the same. “One, you should probably reach out to your therapist—”

“I—” Jaskier starts, but Eskel holds up a hand to stop them.

“You love Essi, and I’m sure they miss you. You raved about them all last semester and I think a session or two with them might do you some good.”

Jaskier seems to contemplate this before turning back to Eskel, “What’s the second thing?”

Eskel laughs and claps his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “I know Geralt loves you too.”

***

(“This shit’s gonna have nuts in it.”)

“Where’s Whoreson?” Yennefer grits out, shoving the chair leg further into the chest of the henchman. The man dies before Yennefer can get an answer. 

Triss deflects two blades from hitting Yennefer in the back as the Tiefling works, turning on the knife-throwing assailant and advancing, a cantrip at the ready. “Where’s Whoreson?”

The man squeaks as a spell hits him and keels over. Triss and Yennefer are standing in the remnants of the casino, covered in blood and other bodily fluids. 

“Fuck, this is never gonna come out,” Yennefer grumbles, gesturing to her once pristine gear. 

“Seltzer water and lemon for blood. Or wear red. Dumbass,” Triss jokes, leading the way out of the dilapidated casino. 

***

They shove their way into the fighting ring where two Skelligan brothers have just been absolutely decimated by a shaelmaar. Yennefer tosses a dagger and pins the hand of the arena master against a wood post, and Triss unleashes fireballs against the crowd, dispersing them. 

“Don’t make me ask twice,” Yennefer growls, pinning the arena master with a deadly stare. “Where,” she pauses, “is Whoreson?”

It’s only later, as Yennefer cleans her armor again from all the blood (it’s a new red armor this time, but still the thick blood is visible) that she comments to Triss, “He made me ask twice. Are my teeth muffling my voice?”

Triss just laughs.

***

They sneak into Whoreson’s house through the third floor window but are quickly ambushed by more henchmen. The two toss cantrips and spells at the unsuspecting guards, Yennefer vaulting over the staircase yelling, “Where’s Whorseon?!”

Triss throws a guard over a desk, similarly jumping over and pining the henchman, “Where the fuck is Whoreson!”

Yennefer traps three henchmen in a hallway, pulling her dagger and slashing the men who make their way towards her. “Dónde está, hijo de tu madre?”

Triss grabs another henchman, slitting their throat with ease, shouting at one across the room, “Tell me where your fucking boss is! Or you’re gonna die!” Another henchman begins attacking her, as the one on the other side of the room limps away. “In a minute!’

After they’ve cleaned out the house (also known as murdered everyone and started burning the bodies out back), Triss and Yennefer pass a bottle of vodka back and forth, winded from their fight. Yennefer flips idly through a notebook that she found, Triss methodically cleaning her dagger before sheathing it in the leather scabbard. 

“Hey, do you read Elvish?” Yennefer asks, passing the notebook to Triss. 

“Passably,” Triss mutters, taking the book from her counterpart. “This either says something about a topographical map and avocados or the location of a house in Oxenfurt.”

Yennefer snorts, before standing, stretching and opening a portal. “Oxenfurt it is.”

***

Whoreson Junior definitely earned his name. 

The floor of the home in Oxenfurt is covered in congealing blood, spatter on the walls, undergarments lining the halls. The sweet scent of cheap perfume lingers in the air, constricting the flow of air into Yennefer’s throat, confusing her senses. She’s once again covered in blood, hands sticky with it, weapons drenched in it, snarling lips pulled away to show it gathered along her teeth and gums. 

She kicks in the door of the bedroom. 

It’s a murder scene. 

A girl hangs from the ceiling, blood moving down her body in steady rivers, dripping and splattering on the floor. A group of women are gathered in the tub in the corner, up to their breasts in blood, heads hanging at angles that are not lifelike. Another two girls are tied to the bed, their arms and torsos showing signs of beatings, malnutrition, and rope burns. 

And there Whoreson sits, like a king amidst the death of his people. 

Yennefer has him pinned to the wall before he can even acknowledge their presence, claws digging every so  _ slightly  _ into the pulsing veins and arteries in his neck. 

“You fucking cunt,” she seethes, gripping him harder. 

He whimpers so pitifully. 

Triss enters the room with a gasp and rushes to check on the girls but Yennefer knows it’s pointless--they’re dead. She squeezes harder. 

“Stop,” Whorseon gasps out, “I’ll--I’ll talk.”

Yennefer slowly loosens her grip, but keeps him pinned against the unforgiving plaster. 

“Where is the phylactery,” she spits. 

“Top drawer,” he slurs. 

Her grip must be cutting off the oxygen to his brain.  _ Good _ . 

Triss rips open the dresser and takes out the small gold and glass box, brandishing it towards Yennefer. Yennefer smiles ruefully, turns back to Whoreson, notes the gasp of air and scramble of his hands against her arms, and snaps his neck. 

The dockhands in Oxenfurt find Whoreson’s body the next morning tied to the mast of Radovid’s ship, neck snapped, skin flayed, and cock and balls stuffed down his gaping maw. 

***

Geralt dumps the leftover roasted rabbit and root vegetables from his bowl into Jaskier’s, as they crouch by the same campfire. “Eat,” he mutters, giving the bard a small smile. 

Jaskier gives him a wide grin and digs into the meal, scooping the game into their mouth, humming in pleasure at the taste. Geralt gazes at the bard, quickly averting his eyes when Jaskier catches him and gives the older fighter a saucy wink as they shovel down the hasty dinner. 

Geralt relaxes against the bedroll, staring up at the stars in the sky, head tilted back and hair pillowed on bent forearms. He used to do this with Ciri, pointing out all the constellations that he could see in the sky, watching her green eyes grow in wonder at the tales he crafted from his childhood and the myths he knew about the constellations. Even the slightest glimpse of the twinkling lights, Ciri would pull him to the first clearing she found, force him to lay on his back and tell her all that he knew. 

He’s so lost in his memories that he barely notices Jaskier laying down next to him, copying his posture and taking in note of the sky. 

They’re silent for a moment, staring up at the same moon and stars before Jaskier speaks. 

“So those Crones, huh.”

Geralt hmms in agreement. 

Upon arrival at the Baron’s fortress, the ruler noted that Ciri indeed had wandered through his lands mere days before, but that in order to receive her current whereabouts, Geralt and Jaskier would need to do him a favor. 

What followed was a wild goose chase across Velen in vain attempts to find the missing wife and daughter of the Baron— including visits to a (goatfucking, patricide) pellar, a sorceress named Kiera, a haunted and rat-infested tower, a botchling’s grave, and a fisherman’s hut— led the duo to the Crones of Velen, or the Ladies of the Wood as the locally obsessed village called them. 

The quite frankly, disgusting, rank ass witches that they encountered were nothing like the local gossip led Geralt and Jaskier to believe and Geralt almost murdered them when they had suggested wanting to eat Ciri before handing her over to Eredin, whom she had promptly escaped from. 

So Jaskier and Geralt were spending their eighth (ninth?) night camping under the stars on their way back to the Baron. Greg and Roach were tied up just on the other side of the campsite, blankets over their bodies cloaking them from any passersby who might want to steal or maim the beasts. The fire was getting low, casting Geralt and Jaskier in its ethereal golden and orange glow, presenting shadows across their faces. Jaskier rolled on their side to face Geralt, arms pillowing under their head. 

“Where do you think she went?” they ask, softly. 

“I have no idea,” Geralt sighs. “She went to the Crones first, then the Baron. From there,” he blows out a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

Jaskier reaches out and touches Geralt’s shoulder, passing their hand along the leather armor, before gripping Geralt’s wide palm with their lute calloused fingers. 

Geralt squeezes their hand. 

“She’s probably so scared,” he whispers to the night. “I can’t help but feel like I failed her.”

Jaskier squeezes the hand back. 

“You haven’t,” they whisper, tugging on Geralt’s hand so he looks at them. “Ciri is so strong and you taught her to be that strong. We’ll find her. We will. I know it.”

Geralt turns to face Jaskier, stroking his thumb over the back of the bard’s hand. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. 

Jaskier smiles so bright, and Geralt knows, he knows, that he loves them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one goes out to that fucking foglet in velen. rip you hateful bastard
> 
> kudos to you if you can find the deadpool reference in this chapter. 
> 
> Witcher references  
>  The Crones of Velen   
> [ The Baron ](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Phillip_Strenger)  
>  The Baron's quest in Wild Hunt   
>  Whoreson Junior 


	7. roll for insight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a sage awakes, a plan is made, a secret is revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi all, it's a short one again (sorry, in the middle of moving and my summer semester ending, it's been a week). no tag updates this time! enjoy bbys <3

“So she wasn’t at the Baron’s fortress?”

“For the third time, Yenna,” Geralt complains softly, rubbing a hand over tired eyes. “The Baron said she had left a few days before we had arrived.”

Yennefer sighed and leaned against the makeshift operating table, eyeing Triss and the cursed sage with disdain. Geralt crossed the room to the dusty bar where Jaskier was idly plucking lute strings, legs propped up on the counter, a bottle of Est Est half empty next to them. 

They had been at the curse breaking for several hours already with no end in sight. Geralt and Jaskier stumbled in with a lack of news about Ciri around hour three, shoved food into their faces and promptly found the hidden alcohol in a back storeroom. Now they were passing around bottles of White Gull and Beauclair wine, watching the two sorceresses attempt to heal the sage. 

Triss’s magic crackled around the small room, and she sighed, pushing more of her power into it. 

“He’s not taking well to the treatment. He’s probably going to die.”

“I mean, do we even need him?” Lambert asked from their perch at the top of the stairs, where they were twirling daggers in intricate patterns. “Not like he’ll have a better idea of where Ciri is.”

“Lambert has a point,” Jaskier agreed, their plucking coming to a stop. “I mean, what good can the Sage do now?”

“I think he can track her somehow,” Yennefer said, settling back against the table and passing a glass of water to Triss, who eagerly gulped down the liquid. “I mean, that’s how he found her in the first place right?”

Just then, Triss’s magic flared again and she gasped, “The phylactery, Yenna.”

Yennefer grabbed the phylactery and stood opposite her partner as Triss pulled the curse from the body of the sage and cast it into the small box. Yennefer slammed the box shut and placed it on the table, gazing down at the sage. 

Triss ran her hands over the body of the sage, “He won’t live for long, the curse took too much from him.”

Yennefer leaned over the sage then and growled softly, causing the elf’s eyes to flutter open as he took in the Tiefling. 

“Where is Ciri,” she growled. 

“The Isle of Mists. She’s safe,” he said softly. “I wanted to...I wanted to protect her.”

“Bullshit,” Yennefer laughed, brutally gazing down at the sage. “I can see in your mind. You hunted her, like an animal. You forced her to complete acts she didn’t want to be a part of. You’re a monster.”

The sage gazed up at her, fear filling his expressions. 

“And the thing is,” Yennefer said, taking the dagger that Lambert handed her. “We kill monsters.”

***

Her body crashed into the waves, cold shocking her system as she fought to the surface of the choppy water. As she broke through the tension of the water, she hastily wiped water from her eyes and sputtered as salty water expelled itself from her lungs. Her gear was heavy and weighing her down, and as she struggled, she heard splashing. She turned and saw a Skelligan woman diving into the water and swimming towards her. 

That was all she remembered from a while. 

The next time she woke, she was on a soft bed, flames from a fireplace warming her chilled bones. Her gear was discarded, her midriff wrapped in linen, blood soaking through the bandages.

“You caught yerself on a fishing trap,” a soft voice explained. “Hook went through ya and into yer ribs. I pulled it out, but ya won’t stop bleedin’.”

Ciri looked up to see the woman from before, red hair pulled back and the colors of the an Craite clan wrapping her body. Around her shoulders was a matted brown fur. A scar bisected the woman’s face, but her warm brown eyes showed compassion and kindness. She was beautiful. 

“Who are you?” Ciri asked. 

“Cerys an Craite,” the woman responded, pulling at the bandages and unraveling them from Ciri’s body. “Yer on Hjindersfall.”

“Hjindersfall?” Ciri asked. “Why are you on Hjindersfall?”

Cerys chuckled. “I’m competin’ for the throne. Tha Temple Garden of Freya had been overrun by a beast named Morkvarg who had plagued tha villagers. I killed ‘im and was on me way back to Ard Skellige when you fell outta tha sky.”

Cerys methodically dunked a cloth into the water and ran it over Ciri’s wounds, inspecting them before pulling out a bottle of vodka, a sharpened needle and tin thread.    
  


“Ya need stitches, girl,” Cerys noted, and Ciri nodded, allowing the Skelligan more access to her ribs. 

Cerys stitched very carefully, a companionable silence falling over the room as she worked. The pulling of skin didn’t bother Ciri that much but the wound ached with each pass through. Cerys worked quickly though with careful, neat stitches, and soon the work was over. Ciri settled back against the bed, letting her eyes close as Cerys moved around the room, domestic noises lulling her back to sleep. 

She awoke to sounds of a battle, steel ringing out against steel and smoke filling the small hut. Cerys was shaking her shoulders, attempting to rouse her, eyes wild and grimace foul. Ciri shot out of bed, pulling uncomfortably on her stitches, but quickly stuffing herself into the borrowed outfit from the Baron and lining her body with her weapons.

“It’s Ragh nar Roog,” Cerys commented, as Ciri quickly pulled on her clothes. “Tha Wraiths of Mörhogg have invaded tha village.”

The Wraiths of Mörhogg. The Wild Hunt. They had found her. Again. 

“Cerys, I need to hide. They are after me,” Ciri pleaded as the other woman began to lead her out and into the battle fray.

Cerys paused and looked at Ciri, before turning and ushering the other out of the back door of the hut. Ciri let herself be pushed towards the stable, the battle raging behind them, as Cerys saddled two horses. 

“I know a place where ye can hide,” Cerys stated, “But we must hurry to tha harbor.”

“The harbor?” Ciri asked, mounting the horse. 

“Aye, won’t be gettin’ to the Isle of Mists on a horse, girl.”

And with that, Cerys dug her heels into her mount and shot out of the stable towards the harbor, Ciri just behind her, wind in her hair. They thundered past the battle, bloodshed and ravage causing Ciri to turn her gaze. She wished to help but she was unsure what she could do. She loosed a few arrows as she rode, galloping behind Cerys who cut through warriors and hounds of the Hunt alike with a battle axe. 

They flew down the mountain towards the harbor, hounds chasing after them, sending ice and debris into their paths. Ciri loosed arrows into the packs, hitting her mark as they fell to the wayside and crumpled to the ground. 

As they reached the harbor, Cerys directed her horse to a small boat, cotton sail whipping in the storm. She quickly dismounted and began pushed the boat into the water, Ciri also dismounting and racing towards the boat. Ciri clamored in, taking the till and directing the boat, Cerys jumping in just as the hounds reached the shore, warriors hot on their heels. 

As they sailed away from Hjindersfall, Ciri caught her breath, her ribs straining, stitches pulling uncomfortably. She had switched spots with Cerys, as the other knew the way, and as she looked over the Skelligan sea, Ciri felt at peace. She turned to Cerys to thank her for her help, but was met with mistrustful eyes, and a gathering feeling of chaos. 

“Sleep, Zireael,” Cerys states, waving a hand over Ciri’s face and then the huntress succumbed to sleep. 

***

Geralt is halfway through his afternoon nap, when the bed shifts, the covers pull back and someone snuggles into his side. He tilts over, wraps his arms around the person and settles back under the blanket of sleep. 

He wakes later to the sweet smell of Jaskier’s way too expensive shampoo invading all his senses, and the warm body of his partner, gently intertwined with his. He blinks his eyes open to find Jaskier staring at him, love in their eyes and a soft smile on their lips. They vaguely smell like the barn and Geralt wonders if Jaskier has been out that way this afternoon. 

“Hi,” he whispers. 

“Hi,” Jaskier states, rubbing their thumb over Geralt’s cheekbone. 

“You’re here,” he notes and Jaskier hums in agreement. 

“I talked to Eskel and then Essi.”

“Your therapist?”

“Yeah, we have an appointment tomorrow.”

Geralt nods, cuddling closer to Jaskier. 

“What’s been going on baby, please, talk to me,” he begins and Jaskier sighs. 

“I’ve just been having a lot of anxiety about our relationship and my career and the pandemic and its manifesting in not so great ways,” Jaskier says. “I’m sorry that I’ve been so distant.”

“You know you can talk to me about all of that,” Geralt acknowledges and Jaskier nods. 

“I know. And I’m sorry that I’ve kept you out of the loop. It wasn’t my intention.”

Geralt places a kiss against their forehead. “I’m glad you talked to Essi. Anything else I can do to support you?”

Jaskier giggles and snuggles closer. “No, but,” they sigh. “I love you.”

Geralt pulls back to look at them and notes the hope in their eyes. “Jask,” he starts. 

“You don’t have to say it back just yet, but I wanted you to know. I do love you and I want this so desperately to work.”

Geralt swallows and places a kiss on their lips. 

He’s never been good with words. But actions, actions are how he shows his adoration, his love. So he kisses Jaskier breathless and then he kisses him some more and then he litters kisses across their face and down their neck till they gasp and writhe and then he kisses their collarbones and shoulders and then he kisses their lips some more and pulls on their bottom lip with his teeth. And then as he’s leaning in for the hundredth or thousandth kiss of the moment, the door to the bedroom swings open and Ciri stands in the doorway. 

“What the actual fuck?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ya girl loves a cliffhanger. we're so close to the end i'm so excited for the next two chapters tbh.
> 
> Witcher References  
>  Cerys an Craite   
> [ Hindarsfjall ](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Hindarsfjall)  
> [ Isle of Mists ](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Isle_of_Mists)


	8. roll for deception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi friends--i am so so sorry about this very late update. july was a mess: i moved, had to plan, work & present at three virtual conferences, and drove across the US to visit my family for my brother's wedding shower & bachelor gathering (covid compliant of course). 
> 
> but here it is. 
> 
> and she's full of angst.

The boat lurches to the side as Geralt navigates through the storm-ridden Skelligan sees. He jerks the sail to the right, narrowly missing a large wave and sending the boat careening towards the outcrop of Undvik. The boat dangerously tips again as the rains and wind pick up, and Geralt grits his teeth, letting the rope run through his hands for the sail. 

Through the curtain of rain, he can barely see Jaskier clutching the side of the boat, knuckles white with tension, grimace against their Elven features, pretty pink lips twisted into a frown, eyes narrowed and set in a hard stare. 

Geralt sympathizes with their mood. 

The boat lurches again and they both stumble against the weather-worn wood, gripping their respective parts of the vessel as it careens through the rocky waters. A large cluster of stone skids off the starboard side of the boat, jostling the two adventurers as they pass under a large stone arch.

“Can’t turn back now,” Jaskier mutters to themselves and Geralt nods, guiding the rope through his hands into the misty depths. 

Jaskier pulls out their lute, strumming a few notes of a guiding spell, and the song creates a small bubble of light that illuminates the inlet. As they pass through the arch, the rainstorm ceases and the mist sets in heavier than before, coating the rocks and shipwrecks in a silence. 

Geralt moves the rudder as the bubble of light swings around a tight corner and then another, narrowly avoiding the longships and vessels of old, sirens perched atop crumbling masts, wings spread, teeth gleaming in the spell’s light. The sirens swoop in and out in dizzying figure eights, but get no closer to the boat as it curves a path through the ship wasteland.

The spell leads them through one final turn and the boat rocks up onto a desolate shore, crumbling and rotting dock that barely reached the bow of the boat. Geralt and Jaskier stood, leaping down into the ankle deep, murky water before sloshing their way up to the muddy shore.

A winding path lead them through high grasses and wild herbs, gnarled trees casting shadows as the guiding spell passed through, leading the adventurers up a steep incline to a small hut. 

A person with red hair and the red uniform of the An Craite clan leaned up against the door, arms crossed over their chest, a scar pulling at the skin across their mouth. They regarded the adventurers with a grimace, before pushing off the wall and stalking forward to greet them. 

“Me name’s Cerys An Craite. I’m guessin’ yer here fo ‘er.”

“For whom,” Jaskier asked, shielding their body with their lute, but nevertheless standing tall next to Geralt. 

“Ashen haired lass, name’s Ciri. Found ‘er on Hindarsfjall.”

“Yes,” Geralt breathed a sigh of relief, “Yes, we’re here for her.”

Cerys sighed, ran a hand through her hair and stepped towards the half-orc. She placed a hand on his shoulder and looked into his deepset golden eyes. 

“Dreadful sorry,” Cerys began—

“What do you mean?” Geralt butted in.

“She’s cold. Spirit’s left ‘er. I used a lil’ magic to let ‘er sleep after we left Hindarsfjall--poor thing was exhausted. She woke on the boat, but ‘hen we arrived ‘ere, she just collapsed on the shore. I carried ‘er up, but she hasn’t woke. Must’ve passed a short time ago.”

Jaskier let out a choked sob, hand gripping Geralt’s arm, as Cerys turned and unlocked the door, before stepping aside. 

Geralt looked at Cerys, before taking a few slow steps towards the door. Jaskier unhooked their arm and stepped back, tears streaming down their face. 

The door loomed imposing over Geralt’s figure as he slowly pushed it open. He took in the cozy cabin, with its roaring fire and simple hardwood interior, herbs lining the shelves and furs gathered near the hearth. As the door swung fully open, he saw her, her body, lying away from the door, curled in on itself like he had seen her sleep so many times, unmoving. 

He crossed the cabin in slow measured steps, heart pounding faster than any half-orcs should ever, before all but collapsing near her on the bed, arm reaching out to her cold body as he turned her onto her back. 

Her color was pallid, closed eyes rimmed in a dark kohl, hair escaping the bun on the back of her head in small wisps. A scar bisected her right eye, but otherwise everything was the same; the freckles covering her nose, the dagger he had given her at her hip, belt Yennefer had made her circling her waist. 

As her body turned, he stood, emotions boiling to the surface, tears escaping his eyes, unable to look at his daughter, her prone form, devoid of all life. His baby girl, lifeless, and he couldn’t do anything about it. He collapsed back again to the bed, head in his hands as the tears he had never cried before leaked down his face. 

He then reached for his baby girl, curling her against his chest, wrapping his arms around her as he did when she was little and running through forests chasing after rabbits and deer and that night’s meal. He tucked his face into her shoulder, tears dampening her shirt, as he rocked her back and forth and held his daughter for the last time. 

He didn’t even notice the creaking floor, didn’t notice the arms wrapping around Ciri’s other side, the hushed Elder whisper, the sound of tears joining his. 

“ _ Taedh éigean live aep ninnau _ .”

***

Yennefer paced the length of the tavern on Ard Skellige, glancing nervously at Triss, who starred mutely into her ale. Lambert was curled up under a fur against the fire, legs stretched out in front of him, eyes closed, but alert. The other tavern patrons bustle around, oblivious to the tense feelings on the other side of the room, skirting around the group, laughing, dancing, and all around enjoying the evening. 

But the adventurers are silent. 

Yennefer heaves another sigh and makes her way over to where Triss is huddled, sitting next to her partner and wrapping an arm around the cleric’s shoulders. Triss smiles at the sorceress and stares down into the pint, eyes glazed over and not really paying attention. Yennefer sighs again and presses her cheek against the top of Triss’s head, gazing out over the room to the door. 

Just then, a bright green flash emanates around the room and where there was an empty space before stands three very familiar faces. Triss lets out a sob and Yennefer launches to her feet, Lambert similarly moving across the room to embrace the three, sinking to the floor once their arms encircle them, tears flowing freely. 

The group embraces for what seems like a decade and finally separates, getting a good look at the fighter, huntress, and bard. All look a little worse for the wear; Ciri with a new scar across her eye; Jaskier clutching their lute and a little green at the gills; and Geralt, weary and almost like he has been crying, but a joyous smile stretched across his face. 

“What creature was it,” Lambert asks Ciri.

“What do you mean?” she laughs at the rogue. 

“The one that gave you a scar over your right eye? It’s new, I don’t remember it.”

“Souvenir from the basilisk near Crow’s Perch. Another addition to the collection, nothing special,” she says with a smirk and Lambert throws his arms around the huntress once more.

The group gathers around the table, mead and ale in each’s hands, food platters filling the voids on the wood. Ciri digs in ravenously and Yennefer sips her wine, watching her daughter with an inquiring eye. 

“What?” Ciri asks, mouth full of pheasant. 

“What does Eredin want from you?”

“What all the Aen Seidhe want, control of my power and my Elder Blood. Their home faces annihilation, Eredin’s decided to invade ours. Brilliant, wouldn’t you say? Can’t achieve much on his own, so he needs to bring an army. Except his navigators can’t possibly move him and thousands of Aen Elle between planes. Their abilities won’t allow it.”

“Whereas yours will,” Yennefer states. 

“Exactly. And if I die in the process--well that’s a necessary sacrifice.”

“Well we won’t let that happen,” a voice growled from Ciri’s right causing the whole table to turn to a hooded figure behind her. 

The hooded figure stood, ale in hand and moved towards the adventurers. They were a hulking figure, body clad in silver chain mail and a heavy plated armor. A shield and greatsword were strapped to their back. Their gauntlet covered hands reached up and removed their hoods to reveal a scarred face, lips twisted into a smile, and copper eyes staring back at them. 

“Eskel?!” 

***

Geralt introduced the other adventurer’s to his brother in arms, Eskel, a Goliath paladin that served the sacred gods of the Continent and fought for justice, not for men and their often monstrous intentions. He had heard of the adventurer’s and their fight against the end of the world and Eredin and made haste to the Skellige Isles to lend his sword to his brother. 

The adventurers had retired to the spacious quarters that Yennefer had rented and begun preparing for their ultimate battle, which had quickly devolved into a major fighting match between Geralt, Jaskier, and Ciri. 

It had started with her position in the battle and who would best protect the huntress from Eredin and his mage. But it quickly devolved into something much much more real than their quickly ending adventure.

“I don’t trust either of you! Not anymore!” Ciri yelled, slamming her fist against the oaken table. “You won’t keep me or anyone else safe!”

“Woah, little lion, calm down,” Eskel stated, attempting to placate the huntress. 

“Fuck off,” Ciri spits, glaring at the adventurers. “No one should trust either of them! All they’ve been doing is lying to us.”

“Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon,” Geralt called, “Watch your tone.”

“Fuck off, Dad.”

“Ciri, this isn’t fair,” Jaskier attempts, only to be shut down by the huntress’s rage. 

“Oh, you want to talk fair? What about you fucking my dad when you knew I liked you? Was that fair?” she bristles. “Or when you tried to hide it under everybody’s nose and act like you hated each other and make me complete all this fucking emotional labor because I wanted to make it right?!”

“Wait, what the fuck is going on?” Lambert asked, breaking the scene as his brother seethed and tears collected in Jaskier’s eyes. 

“Dad and Jaskier,” Ciri spits, anger flooding her normally calm and collected tone. “Have been fucking since September and lying to all of us about it.”

The bombshell drops on the table and quiets the fighting. Triss lets out a small gasp, Lambert rubs a hand across his brow, Yennefer decidedly looks at everyone but her daughter, and Eskel drums his fingers on the table. Tears are falling freely from Jaskier’s eyes and Geralt pushes back his chair to pace the length of the table. 

“You all knew,” Ciri says after a moment. 

“I suspected,” Eskel states and Lambert nods in agreement. 

“Jaskier slipped up and told me,” Yennefer states. “And I told Triss.”

Triss remains silent and Ciri’s rage bubbles over again. 

“You know what?” she seethes, “fuck all of you. Fuck this adventure, fuck this stupid fucking quarantine, fuck you, Jaskier, and you too, Dad, I’m done.”

She stands from the table and begins shoving her character sheet, book, and dice into her bag, not making eye contact with anyone. When she finishes packing, she shrugs into her jacket, yanks on her boots, grabs the keys for the car and slams the door behind her. 

Jaskier sobs, burying their head in their hands as the rest of the group awkwardly packs up and begins to exit the premises. Geralt leans against the counter, anger and disappointment rolling off him in waves. When the final party member leaves, he pushes off the counter and starts angrily collecting the drinks and dishes scattered around the kitchen. 

Jaskier stands, wiping tears from their face, attempting to help their partner clean up the mess. They move behind Geralt, placing a dish in the sink but it clatters and crashes, scraping against the other dishes and cracking along the well-worn edge. 

“Damn it, Jaskier! Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shoveling it? 

Jaskier looks hurt, turning on their partner, their tone turning dejected, “Well, that’s not fair.”

“Ciri, the campaign, all of it! If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands,” Geralt continues, his voice rising at the increasingly flushed and embarrassed graduate student, before turning and stalking away, ripping open the patio door and slamming it behind them. 

His black-clad back heaves as he stares out over the pacific northwest mountain range, guilt and fear building in his gut as he broods. The night turns chilly as he braces himself against the railing, the creatures of the forest coming alive under the moonlight. 

And when he finally turns and makes his way inside, all he finds on the kitchen table is a note, written in Jaskier’s beautiful hand. 

_ See you around, Geralt. _

The note crumples in his hand and Geralt breaks down in tears. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am i sorry for angst? no.


	9. roll for survival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the battle that we've (maybe just me) all been waiting for! 
> 
> also minor character death all over the place (none of the adventurers!!!)

Jaskier curled up under the knitted quilt, staring blankly at the wall in front of them. In true Pacific Northwest fashion, it had been raining off and on all week, and only added to their worsening mood. 

The cup of tea that Priscilla had left on the nightstand had sufficiently cooled since her quiet entrance and departure into the guest room during her lunch break. Jaskier had barely acknowledged her, instead opting to stare listlessly out the window like they were some heartbroken Victorian maiden. 

In truth, they felt like a heartbroken Victorian maiden, so they would do all the sulking they wanted. 

And this was also probably gonna be their last day of sulking too. They had heard Mousesack and Pris whispering conspirately outside of their door the night before; Mousesack lamenting two missed deadlines and Pris noting that Essi had called three times because of a missed appointment. Shani, their housemate, and Zoltan, their weed dealer, had even called to check in (the former because Priscilla had told and the latter because Zoltan was wondering where their best customer was). 

No word from Ciri. 

Or Geralt. 

They weren’t sure which hurt more. 

***

“Alright, get your ass up,” Eskel stated, ripping the warm blankets off of Ciri’s sleep-adled body. 

She shivered against the drafty room in the cabin, before turning over and giving her uncle the best death stare she could manage at seven in the morning. 

“Get up and help with chores, or go back to Geralt’s. I’m sick of you moping like some moody ass princess and not pulling your weight,” Eskel said, leaning against the doorframe. 

“Fuck you,” she spat, rolling over and facing the wall. 

She heard Eskel sigh and the telltale creaking of the floorboards as he made his way down the hallway and out of the cabin. She pulled the blankets back up around her and was halfway to falling asleep when her body was shocked awake by a gallon of icy water being thrown on her. 

“WHAT THE FUCK!” she raged, shooting out of the bed. 

“I’m serious, Cirilla Elen Fiona Rihannon. You’re acting like a brat and I know that we raised you better. I know Geralt raised you better.”

She rolls her eyes at her uncle from underneath her dripping hair and he lifts the bucket, as if he’s going to throw the rest of the contents on her. He only lowers the bucket when she bursts into tears.

“Ciri,” he says, approaching his niece, bucket cast to the side. “I know this is hard,” he says, taking her hands in his well-worn paws. “You feel like they betrayed you and your trust. You got stuck in the middle of their drama and that’s not fair.”

She nods tearfully.

“But you also didn’t react in a way that was fair. Your father is allowed to have adult relationships. Jaskier is allowed to have adult relationships. Just because it happens to be with each other shouldn’t change that fact. And maybe, they didn’t tell you because they were afraid you would react the way you did. I mean you said it yourself in one of our first D&D meetings: Jaskier is first to trust and first to fall, but that doesn’t always mean they get them all.”

She giggles at the memory and Jaskier’s mock offense, which was quickly smothered over by the group’s laughter at the rhyme. 

“So it’s a scary moment for everyone all around. I mean it’s always been you and Geralt against the world, and it’s scary to let someone in. I’m sure Geralt feels the same. And for Jaskier, they probably see that and are afraid they won’t fit into this little puzzle you’ve created for you and Geralt. And that’s scary, to not fit in or feel like you’re not wanted.”

He sighs and takes a step back. “Just, just think about it, kid? Okay?”

She nods, wiping her tears and sniffling. 

“You’re mucking Roach’s stall, whenever you’re ready.”

She chuckles as Eskel leaves the room before sitting on the edge of her bed. She’s got a lot to think about.

***

“Ok, I know that Geralt and Jaskier aren’t speaking, and Ciri and Geralt aren’t speaking, and Triss is pissed off at Lambert as usual, and Triss and Yennefer are fighting for some reason, but I have been planning the ending to this campaign for  _ three years  _ and you all will  _ not fuck this up for me! _ ” Eskel demanded, glaring at each individual person before shaking the dice from the Crown Royal bag into the dice tray and pushing it to the center of the table. 

Next went to extensive map, then the painstakingly painted minis for each character, and finally the Bible itself, the Player Handbook. He then passed out each person’s laminated character sheets ( _ just in case _ ), dry erase markers, and extra notepad paper. When he was satisfied with the setup, he turned to the group with a rueful smile. 

“Let’s go get this son of a bitch.”

***

Yennefer dodges a snowy blast from the mage, Caranthir, as another ice golem joins the three already circling the cleric and sorceress on the cracking ice. She summons a wall of fire that blasts through a golem just as Caranthir summons another. 

Triss blinks in and out of existence, attempting to get closer to the mage before he summons yet another ice golem and attempts to murder the two. 

Yennefer casts a meteor storm which rains down fiery hell, exterminating the golems and finally giving her and Triss the ability to storm the mage, who is struggling under his chaos in the attempt to summon yet another ice golem. 

Yennefer unsheathes the dagger given to her by Ciri, sprinting and sliding under the legs of an ice golem, carving out their underside in a spray of white blood and viscera. She stumbles to her feet, charging the mage as Triss blips into existence next to her and summons her chaos to attack the mage with a truly impressive spell (the cleric is  _ so  _ getting fucked tonight). 

They reach the mage at the same time, Yennefer slicing her dagger across his gut and Triss hitting him with a psychic cantrip that forces him to his knees, where Yennefer drives her dagger into his heart.

The two step back as he lists to the side, but not before swirling his power one last time around him and itching out for the sorceress and cleric, portaling them out of this plane of existence. 

They land in frigid Skelligan seas, debris falling all around them and the deadweight of the mage hanging onto their bodies. The two struggle from his grip before propelling themselves to the surface, Triss’s hand clenched tight in Yennefer’s.

They surface, pulling themselves onto an icy shelf, sputtering out water and sea debris. Yennefer rolls over to her partner and grasps the cleric’s face in her freezing hands, placing a kiss on her lips. 

They break apart after a moment, breathing heavily, foreheads resting against one another. 

“Fuck that dude,” Triss states, sighing into the Tiefling’s embrace. 

And all Yennefer can do is chuckle. 

***

“Hit him from the back! The back you idiot! The back!” Lambert yells from his hidden spot behind the rock. 

He’s biding his time while Eskel lays waste to Eredin’s second in command, Immerlith, but the Paladin is taking his  _ sweet ass time  _ destroying the elf. And honestly, Lambert’s about to head in there, dual wielding the dagger like his life depends on it.

“Why did I get stuck with the new guy,” he sighs. 

“I heard you!” Eskel yells as he dodges another attack and rolls around to Immerlith’s back with two sharp jabs. “You could help!?”

Immerlith roars as Eskel cuts him across the back of his knee, throwing down the shield that has barely given him any cover before charging at the paladin and blinking out of sight. 

_ Bingo _ , Lambert thinks to himself, tracking the breeze shifts as Immerlith lands, slightly frozen, out of his teleport, just mere inches from Lambert. 

Lambert springs from his hiding spot, leaping onto the giant elf’s back and plunging his jewel encrusted daggers into his neck. The elf shakes the rogue from his back sending the Dragonborn flying across the clearing and landing next to the paladin. 

“Plan of attack?” Eskel breathes, air knocked out of him. 

“Dodge big stick thingy, don’t die,” Lambert says, scrambling to his feet and running towards the giant elf. 

The elf blinks out and back in just inches behind Lambert, but Eskel is there swinging the long sword into the spaces between Immerlith’s armor as Lambert acts as bait. The elf blinks out again and in behind Eskel this time but the rogue has moved to behind the Wild Hunt general, stabbing in all the places that Eskel had been before. 

Immerlith blinks out again and both Lambert and Eskel dodge out of the way as the elf performs a series of interdimensional travel, blipping in and out as the paladin and rogue leap just out of the way each time. 

“How the fuck!” Lambert asks, breathless from moving. “Does he keep doing this!!”

Eskel laughs a carefree, deep chuckle as he swipes along the weak points in the armor. “His club thingy gets stuck every sixth swing, he’s vulnerable then!”

Just as Eskel speaks, the mace gets stuck in the ground and Lambert leaps onto his back, stabbing into Immerlith’s neck again, the elf howling in pain. He throws Lambert once again, but Lambert’s prepared and with all the grace of a dexterous rogue, rolls to his feet and begins his offensive onslaught once again. 

“Die you mother shitting piece of Aen Seidhe trash garbage cunt face!” Lambert yells, twirling and dodging attacks from the elf, Eskel mirroring the rogue’s ferocity. 

The elf forward thrusts with the mace, then backhands a wide swing, Lambert and Eskel jumping back to dodge, twirling as the elf completes an overhand swing, before Eskel’s steel meets the mace and the paladin thrusts it out of its meeting point with a blast of air. Lambert swoops in front of the paladin, stabbing his rapier through the gut of the elf, before being lifted into the air, Immerlith’s hand choking the life out of the rogue. 

“Who taught you to fight like this?” Immerlith gasps. 

Eskel summons a flame and pushes it against the faceguard of the elf’s helmet, causing him to drop the rogue. Immerlith stumbles back, tearing the burning metal from his face, the skin seared and melting together.

“The mother fucking dungeon master, bitch!” Lambert yells as Eskel picks up the mace, swinging it heavily over his head and into the skull of the elf. 

***

Jaskier strums a lively tune on their lute, summoning forth another wave of woodland creatures and fae alike who throw themselves into the battle against the elves with all the heartiness they could provide. 

The Aen Elle ships have portaled through but with the assistance from Queen Cerys and her Skelligan army, the rag tag adventurers, and the multitude of animals and fae, they’re actually doing pretty well. Jaskier is surprised. But they don’t let their surprise overtake their magicks, instead forcing all their emotion into the Geas spells. 

They survey the field; Yennefer and Triss have just emerged from the icy waters and are taking on some hounds of the Wild Hunt; Eskel and Lambert have returned to the fray, battling some warriors, Eskel swinging Immerlith’s mace and Lambert smashing into things with a giant shield that Jaskier can only presume is Immerlith’s as well; and Geralt and Ciri, well, they’re taking on Eredin himself, dodging and pirouetting in synchronized ways only the father and daughter can.

Jaskier smiles to themselves. Maybe they’ll actually win this thing. 

They summon another wave of Geas and turn their attention back to the battle. 

***

Ciri fires one arrow after another, loosing them into the impenetrable armor as Geralt slashes against the formidable elf who dances and taunts the duo. 

“Is that all you’ve got?” Eredin laughs. “Ciri wouldn’t shut up about you. Maybe I’ll kill you first, so she has to watch.”

Ciri summons a wall of wind which knocks the elf off of his feet, but only for a moment and then he’s back to parrying against Geralt and dodging the attacks from the huntress. 

Geralt swipes against Eredin’s back as the elf moves to duck behind the swinging sword of the fighter. This staggers the King of the Wild Hunt, and Geralt shoulders into him, knocking his helmet from his stature. 

“Now Ciri!” Geralt calls, diving out of the way as the huntress summons her chaos and unleashes a bestial scream at the elf. 

Geralt swings his sword into the chest of the elf, who moves at the impact, crouching in on himself and the injury, and Ciri increases her chaos, further disorienting the elf. Geralt yanks his dagger from his belt, stabbing into the eye of the elf, who goes down limp and devoid of life. 

Around them, it’s as if the Wild Hunt knows they have lost. Yennefer and Triss unleash fireballs onto the remaining warriors while others are overpowered by Skelligan forces. Jaskier sings on, turning their bestial army into a killing force, decimating the Aen Elle ships and people aboard. 

Ciri steps closer to him and takes his hand in hers. “Dad, I’m sorry for saying I didn’t trust you. I do. And I think that you and Jaskier,” she says looking over to the bard with a smile on her face, “will make each other happy.”

Geralt pulls his lion cub into his embrace, holding her tightly against him, despite the blood, ice and Melitele knows what else covers them. “Baby, I’m sorry for not telling you, I feel terrible.”

She smiles into his chest. “I think I understand. I mean I might not all the way, but Uncle Eskel helped me out.”

He laughs and breaks their embrace. “No more secrets?” he asks. 

She smiles and claps his shoulder. “No more big, family altering secrets.”

Geralt laughs and throws an arm around Ciri pulling her close as they watch the battle around them come to an end. He presses a kiss to her hairline and takes in the beauty of the rising sun over the Skelligan seas. He sneaks a quick glance at his bard,  _ his bard _ , and smiles, a real, genuine Geralt of Rivia smile.

It’s kind of the perfect moment.

Until he feels the pinch of a blade in his back, his lungs seizing, blood spilling from his lips. He hits the deck of the ship and sees Eredin smile, laughing as the elf’s last deed is carried out. Ciri collapses next to him, mouth moving frantically as she presses on the wound, but he doesn’t hear her voice. 

All he hears is the angelic scream, the twang of a missed note, and Jaskier’s voice calling out to him as the darkness closes in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorrry!!!1!!!


	10. roll for seduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an adventure ends and a new one begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay the end!! tbh, i never thought this was gonna be this long or this angsty so i definitely apologize. thank you for reading and commenting <3
> 
> also there's a slight sex scene. if this isn't your thing, it's entirely skippable ("mouth parts with a sigh" to "as they stand under the scalding spray")

The room erupts into gasps (and a well-placed “ _ What the fuck _ !” from Lambert) as Geralt loses all of his remaining hit points and his character falls unconscious. Geralt sighs, throwing down the dice and grimacing at his brother across the table.

“How far am I from him?” Jaskier asks, unshed tears building in their eyes. 

“Less than ten feet, why?” Eskel asks. 

“I use regenerate to bring him back,” Jaskier states, staring Geralt down across the table.

“That will use up all your magic for the evening, you sure?” Eskel asks. 

“I’d do anything for him,” Jaskier responds. “I love him.”

Triss lets out a squeal; Yennefer hides her smile behind her glass of red wine; Lambert grins like a cat who got the canary; Eskel raises an eyebrow and a smirk at his brother; and Ciri, Ciri beams brighter than the sun, eyes alight with love and adoration, and lets out a giggle at their declaration. 

Geralt shoves his chair back and crosses the kitchen in three steps, pulling Jaskier from their seat, gathering them into his arms and pressing soft lips against the others, melting into the touch of his partner. The room erupts into cheers as Jaskier clutches at Geralt’s shoulders, hands roving over the body they haven’t touched in ages, finally, finally at home. 

And when they break apart, Geralt leans his forehead against theirs, looks up into their Sound-blue eyes, and whispers, “I love them too.”

***

The sun rises over the Sound, bathing Geralt’s room in warm yellow light and leaking through lashes, stirring the two curled together on the bed. Jaskier’s arm is thrown over Geralt’s waist, half their body resides on Geralt’s side of the bed, and their drool is steadily leaking onto his shirt and soaking through the cotton fabric. Geralt blearily opened his eyes, pressing his nose against Jaskier’s matted hair. He inhales, breathing in the jasmine, lavender, and sage of Jaskier’s shampoo, a scent that calms him and bathes him in relaxation. Jaskier snuffles and presses their face closer into his chest. 

Geralt smiles down at his partner as their eyes blink open in the morning sun, blue meeting golden irises and smiles bleeding across each other’s lips. Jaskier leans forward, capturing Geralt’s lips in a soft morning kiss (morning breath be damned), tugging slightly on his bottom lip until his mouth parts with a sigh. 

Jaskier moves deftly straddling the waist of their partner and learning forward to capture more morning kiss, slowly grinding their clothed cocks together and tugging forth a groan from Geralt. Jaskier chuckles, repeating the action and drawing forth more noises from their partner that they haven’t heard in weeks. The friction of sleep pants is only slightly unbearable but the noises that Geralt is making spurns them on even more. 

“Fuck, Jask,” Geralt breathes into their lips as the younger grinds down again. “Need you.”

Jaskier chuckles again and meets the mouth of their partner, “Use your words baby.”

Geralt smirks and flips the younger under him before yanking down his sleep pants and then his partners, tossing his shirt off the bed somewhere. After divesting them of their clothes, Geralt resumes grinding against his love, skin meeting skin in the most delicious glide, pre leaking steadily from each cock. 

“Won’t last,” Jaskier gasps as Geralt takes their cocks in his hand, sending shockwaves through each person. 

Geralt runs a thumb over the head of their cock, collecting the pre there and smoothing it down their shafts, mixing together and easing the way. He then slowly jerks their cocks, burying his face into the space where Jaskier’s neck meets their shoulder and sucks the soft and supple skin as Jaskier writhes beneath him. 

Jaskier comes first, their spend splashing up onto their belly and Geralt’s hand, which the other gathers and uses to further lubricate their cock. Geralt follows only moments later, with a grunt, adding his spend to the cooling puddle collecting in Jaskier’s navel. The younger tugs Geralt’s head from their shoulder and places a chaste kiss as the sun breaks through the trees and illuminates the room in a deep golden light. Geralt shifts so he’s laying next to his love, arm slung across their chest (just above the mess), hand resting on their heart.

They ignore the mess for a few more moments, breathing in the same space and enjoying one another till the smells of coffee and the slightly off-key singing of ABBA filter up the stairs. Jaskier sits first, taking Geralt’s hand in theirs and dragging them into the bathroom for a shower (and definitely round two). 

As they stand under the scalding spray of the shower, Geralt takes Jaskier’s face in his hands and kisses his partner, breaths fogging the glass even more. 

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

***

The salty spray hits Ciri’s face as she paces the length of the deck, arrow knocked, eyes scanning the horizon for any baddies. Lambert is leaned up against a mast, twirling his dagger in between his fingers as Aiden, a dwarf monk they met last month on the Path, meditates at his feet with a soft smile on his face. Yennefer and Triss are pouring over a map on the opposite side of the deck, hands intertwined, twin smiles decorating their faces. 

Eskel stands at the helm of the ship, deftly navigating the salty Skelligan seas, slightly turning the ship as the waves splash up against the sides. His eyes also scan the waters, lips slightly pursed for any action.

A door leading to the captain’s quarters suddenly bursts open as Jaskier and Geralt exit, clothes askew, both giggling with flushed cheeks. Ciri smiles at her father and friend, happy to see them, and also slightly mortified that the first thing they’ve done on this ship is defile the sleeping quarters. But they’re happy, which means Ciri is happy and that’s all she could really ask for. 

Geralt approaches her at the starboard side, leaning against the railing as he sorts his weapons and sheaths the twin blades at his back. He throws an arm around her shoulder and the two look over the sea together. 

As they gaze out over the sea, movement catches Ciri’s eye as the first of the sirens take flight from the blue depths, launching themselves at the adventurers. Ciri knocks another arrow and readies herself, grinning as the rest of the guild joins her at the side. 

“Ready?” Geralt asks. 

A siren escapes the waves and Ciri loses an arrow into their leathery wings. 

“Ready,” she smiles back. 

And they’re off on another adventure. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you again for reading and commenting <3 
> 
> i'm already started on a new AU (not D&D but still geraskier) so keep an eye out for it!


End file.
